


Once Upon a Contract

by I_Got_Lost



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ace!Bilbo, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Bilbo is So Done, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Gandalf Does Not Know All, Gandalf Meddles, Gen, It's Always Gandalf's Fault, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Rating May Change, Thorin Is an Idiot, ace relationships, contracts contracts and more contracts, fae!Bilbo, possible relationships to develop, someone had to read the fine print
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Got_Lost/pseuds/I_Got_Lost
Summary: In the Shire there were two truths. The Tooks were odd and the Baggins were respectable. The Baggins family dealt in contracts and favours, and while the Shire knew that the Tooks were odd, it was the Baggins family that hadotherblood running through their veins.Bilbo Baggins did not go running out his door for want of an adventure, he went running out his door because of a terribly worded contract and a laughable quest that somehow held the spark of other.In this story, it is not the Tooks that held fae blood in their family tree, it is the Baggins, and theirs is so much closer to the surface.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 385
Kudos: 1563





	1. Shire Lore and Contracts

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this came out of no where, so i have no clue how quickly this will be updated or even where the story is going. I have a rough outline hashed out, but we'll see where this leads.  
> Also, my darlings, be kind. I'm in the middle of moving so my copy of the Hobbit is somewhere in storage, and this fic is going to be a weird mishmash of cannon and headcannon, movie and book, and my own ideas.  
> This also came about because everyone keeps saying the Tooks have fae blood but I never see the Baggins having it (and I mean, come on, Bilbo has got to be the only person who read all the terms and conditions).  
> My fae lore is also half going to be made up and half from oral traditions that were taught to me, so if i get something hideously wrong, either point it out or roll with it, just be kind, eh?  
> Overall, this story is just meant to be fun and something to do when I get stuck on exams or other works.  
> So, as always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost

In the Shire there were two truths. The Tooks were odd and the Baggins were respectable.

The Tooks were wild. They ran through the fields, stole Farmer Maggot’s prized mushrooms and potatoes, and were generally held to be different. How could they not be? When the Tooks were the only ones who walked with the Big Folk without fear and stood beside the Rangers as Bounders, content to walk the borders and deal with folk were certainly not Hobbit. They were also the family that held the Thainship, but that was neither here nor there.

(The Tooks weren’t royalty. Not really. Hobbits held loyalty to a kingdom long to ashes and paid taxes to maintain a road no one ever used.)

(No one really wanted the Thainship either, so the Tooks were a perfectly reasonable family to hold that ‘honour’. They were already odd enough you see.)

Then, there were the Baggins. The holder of contracts, the keepers of Bagshot Row, the owners of The Hill and Underhill, and everything in-between.

The Tooks were odd and the Baggins were respectable.

If one were to go to the Great Smials of Tookborough and bothered to dust off the mathoms collected there, you would also find something that had been long since recorded and never spoken about. The Tooks were odd. The Tooks ran wild. The Tooks danced through the trees in the Old Forest and Yavanna only knew what they found there.

But the Baggins?

Well…

It was in the name wasn’t it?

Owners of The Hill and Underhill.

Everyone in the Shire knew that the Tooks were who you went to go to for the _odd_ problems (that had nothing to do with the being the family of the Thain. You went to a Took for traps and forestry. You went to the Gamgees for plantlore. And may Yavanna help you, you went to the Sackvilles for thievery) but it was the Baggins you dealt with for word and contract.

You did not cross a Baggins. You came with a bag of seed and a coin of silver (there was a reason, after all, that numismatics was not popular in the Shire). You came with a closed mouth that showed no teeth. You came with no scratches or wounds covering your skin. And you never came to bargain something you couldn’t live without.

And you never came with dead iron.

You never gave your name to a Baggins, not your full one anyway, and you always prayed to Yavanna that the Baggins never came to collect any debts. The Shire had been built on favours after all and while it was the Tooks who held the title of Thain, it was the Baggins who held the deed to The Hill and Underhill.

The Baggins were respectable but that was because you couldn’t call them anything less.

Bree folk, arguably the only folk that knew the hobbits the best, aside from the hobbits themselves, thought hobbits remarkably simple. Hobbits, they knew, did not deal in precious metals and iron never sold in the markets that wandered through the Shire. Wood sold best and Bree folk only watched in fascination as their hobbit neighbours gained more yield from fields that were never left to fallow or ever cycled through crops.

Most Bree folk chalked this up to hobbit magic.

(Not there was such a thing, but then, Bree folk also thought that Hobbits came from an unholy marriage of Darrow and Elf. The Hobbits themselves had never bothered to correct these notions.)

Baggins contracts stated that there would always be good yield on tenant land.

And so, there was.

To be fair, most of the Shire didn’t bother to ask how the Baggins did it either. You signed a contract with most of your name, gave a bag of seed, and offered a silver coin. Then you went about your day and tipped your head when the Baggins you signed with came by to see how you were doing.

The Tooks were odd and the Baggins were respectable.

These lines did not change, and the families did not mingle.

The Tooks stayed to Tookborough and the Baggins stayed to Hobbiton, and the Shire breathed a sigh of relief.

And then, one day, Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took began to court.

Belladonna Took was a beautiful little thing, all golden hair and bouncing curves. Bungo Baggins, like the rest of his family, was not. His hands were gnarled from writing contract after contract, his back was bent from pouring over ledger after ledger, and he did not see well into the light, not after years of eyestrain from reading only by candle. Belladonna Took did not care.

It was, the Shire reflected years after the wedding, the only Took wedding that did not occur by eloping, but instead by proper Baggins contract and Shire paper. No one knew what was in the contract, but everyone knew what had come out of it. Belladonna Baggins nee Took was given a home as a courting gift. For a wedding gift, she was given safe travels.

Bungo Baggins was given a son.

It was unfortunate, but even the respectability of the Baggins could not save Bungo and Belladonna from the wagging tongues of the Shire (no one ever said anything to the Baggins family though, it was one thing to talk in the privacy of a garden, it was another to say it to the holder of your contract). But, there were whispers. Whispers that Belladonna had only agreed to the suit because of the contract Bungo offered. Whispers that Belladonna had only signed because she wanted guaranteed safety when her feet lead her off of tenant land and into the wider world.

What the hobbits had seemed to forgotten, was that Belladonna was one child of twelve and two of her brothers were bounders. She was not as defenceless as the other hobbit lasses, no Took girl was. What had also been forgotten was that years before, under the Party Tree, Bungo Baggins had swore that he would gain Belladonna’s hand in marriage or he would never marry at all. What was remembered even less, was that Belladonna had shyly agreed.

And so, Bungo and Belladonna Baggins had married and had a son.

Bilbo Baggins, as he was known to the Shire, was as odd as his mother and as respectable as his father.

And, since he was a Baggins, he would never be called anything less.


	2. Shire Contracts and Good Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lads,  
> Somehow, this grew on me today and I got another chapter written. I have no clue where this came from and honestly I'm just as surprised as you guys are.  
> As always, have fun, enjoy and please, pretty pretty please, don't shoot me.  
> -Lost
> 
> Warnings:  
> -mentions of an abuse of power  
> -discussions of a unequal marriage  
> -fraud  
> -meddling wizards

For the first time in two days, Bilbo Baggins opened his front door. This act, in its self, was not unusual, the opening of the front door that is, what was unusual was the length of time since Bilbo himself had stepped outside.

“Did you figure it out then?”

Bilbo did not startle at the sudden question, nor did he look up from the papers in his hand. There were contracts and then there were _Baggins Contracts_ , it did not take a genius to know which one Bilbo held.

“For what it’s worth, I truly am sorry, Lobelia.” Bilbo's voice did not shake but it only took looking at the slump of his shoulders to see the defeat Bilbo would never let into his voice.

“Can it be broken?”

For a moment, Bilbo could only stare, his eyes wide as he took in the poor girl huddled on his front step. One did not break contracts. The same way the sun always set in the west, the rain fell from the sky, and winter always followed fall, contracts could not be broken. Bilbo might have been the son of a Took but he was too _Baggins_ to ever entertain the idea of a broken contract.

Dropping down onto his bench, Bilbo slowly pulled out his pipe from his vest and a small bag of Old Toby from his trousers. Using the bench as a striker was just habit by this point, never mind that he could hear his mother screech about using the striker beside the door echoing faintly in his ears. For all that Belladonna had never stood on propriety, there were certain things she hadn’t stood for.

Bungo had lived to poke fun at those few habits.

“This,” Bilbo said, his eyes closed to the memories of his father doing the same tapping motion to contracts he reviewed, “is a Baggins contract. Ironclad and unbreakable. It can only be released by the holder.”

Lobelia put her head into her hands. “I was drunk.” She whispered her voice hoarse.

Bilbo winced, it wasn’t the first time he had heard that admission and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “You signed a marriage contract with a Baggins. Unless he releases the contract...”

The contract was near unbreakable and Bilbo had tried to find a way around it. He really had. Lobelia had appeared in Bag End two days before, her eyes wild and her lips trembling, a contract held by white knuckles, and swore up and down that she didn’t remember signing the damn thing at the time of the wedding. But her name was on the paper, done by her own hand, and her oath had been sworn in her own blood.

Bilbo hadn’t seen the girl look so defeated since first time he had stolen back his silver cutlery from her kitchen drawers.

“Appeal to the Thain.” Bilbo finally murmured, unable to take her soft hiccupping cries any more. “You cannot break the contract, not with these clauses, but if the Thain pressures Otho into releasing his side of the contract, you could walk away.”

What Bilbo didn’t say was that clauses 5-16 covered almost this exact scenario. Otho was young and arrogant, which was the only reason he had penned in clause 14, ‘Lobelia Sackville shall not call upon the Baggins clan for any contract related reason, barring the immediate death of one, Otho Baggins.’ Considering Lobelia was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins by the time of the amendment and Bilbo had heard her clearly when she had threatened Otho's murder unless Bilbo looked over the contract, Bilbo wasn’t too concerned. Besides, she hadn’t gone to the Baggins _clan_ but instead to Bilbo, the contract still held and she would not suffer the consequences of a broken contract.

Was he stretching the interpretation of the clause? Definitely. But Bilbo would take what he could get, and it wasn’t as if Otho wouldn’t do (hadn’t done) the same. Besides, all Baggins knew the punishment of broken contracts. If one was lucky, they would die quickly.

Lobelia nodded from where she had tucked her head into her knees. “I thought he loved me.”

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Lobelia's contract was illegal by Shire standards and once Bilbo took the copy he had painstakingly scratched out on Shire parchment, Otho would be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. But Lobelia loved the bastard and Bilbo would not see her hurt, even if she kept trying to steal his silver spoons. By Lobelia going to the Thain, at the very least she would gain the support of the Tooks in the upcoming months.

The contract itself, no matter the clauses, (best not to think of those too much, lest Bilbo start yelling at the poor girl. It wasn’t her fault this had happened after all) was not the problem. The problem was the situation in which the contract had been created.

Lobelia did not remember signing the contract. She did not receive a copy, and as far as Bilbo was aware (and he had checked) there was no filed copy in the archives. And, since the archives were currently being stored in what should have been his second pantry, Bilbo hadn’t had to go far to check.

(Otho had had five years of marriage to file the contract. Five. At this point Bilbo was going to force Otho to release contract on principle. Even if he was a bastard, it was no reason not to backdate, cover one’s ass, and file properly!)

By all rights, Lobelia should not have been bound to the terms of the marriage contract. Not legally at least. but when there was blood involved…

It was better to take no chances.

Bilbo held out the contract. “Ask no questions.”

Lobelia didn’t look up as she grasped the paper. “And tell no lies.” Her skirts swished as she stood and Bilbo could only watch in sympathy as she pressed a hand to her stomach. “I guess I'm going to the Thain then.”

Bilbo only gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile (in truth, it felt more like a grimace, but really, who could blame him). Baggins contracts needed four things to take hold, a bag of seed (sewn cleverly into Lobelia's wedding skirts), a silver coin (she had worn such a fetching necklace, although the pendant had been a bit odd), a name (do you, Lobelia Sackville take this man…), and consent (I do).

The contract did not care for willing consent. It did not care for morals or distress. It did not care for a bride pinned into a gilded cage or a child about to be born into a household that due to clause 52 A, subsection C, would not support him. The contract did not care, because for all that it was written on Shire paper and breathed to life by Shire ink, it was written by mortals (somewhere, Bilbo was sure an immortal ancestor was laughing) and as Bungo had warned Bilbo since the moment Bilbo had begun to walk, it was the _duty_ of the holder to make the contract fair.

This was not fair and Bilbo hated it.

A Baggins was not above the law and may Yavanna have mercy, neither was Otho.

Lobelia nodded to him once before turning on her heel and stalking out his front gate. Blurrily, Bilbo puffed on his pipe. He really was too old for this. For a hobbit, especially one with Took blood, he was just approaching middle aged and feeling every year. And, at this point, Bilbo could firmly say he needed a vacation from the stupidity of both sides of his family. It was about that time of the year when young Tooks made for a quick break across the fields (taking short cut through his gardens or, Yavanna forbid, over his roof) and young Baggins began to trot outside into the sunlight, ink staining their fingers as they twisted words around and around.

Blowing a quick ring of smoke, Bilbo glowered darling into his front garden. Even he, fingers twitching and leg bouncing, could feel the call. Sticky fingered and silver tongued, his parents had called him as a lad. The sticky fingers had faded away after Farmer Maggots big black hound had near broken Bilbo's leg running him into the ground. The silver tongue had never faded however, and he probably should have been grateful that verbal contracts never _stuck_ anywhere in the Shire. Really, it was only during his walks to Bree that he ran into a lick of trouble.

The less said about the trade of soap for a pint of ale was probably for the best. Poor Marion Proudfoot still didn’t understand why she felt obligated to suffer through that transaction very time he stopped by the Prancing Pony. Hopefully she never would. Bilbo wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from embarrassment.

Slouching back onto his bench, Bilbo allowed himself the luxury of one long drag from his pipe. It would not do to become flustered before even posting the morning mail. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a letter. Upon reflection, he should have felt a bit more ceremony with the movement, this was, after all, the letter that would declare Otho an faithbreaker.

A Baggins was always respectable, until one day they weren’t.

And everyone knew what happened when one broke even the spirit in which a contract was made.

A soft ‘hurmp’ made Bilbo open his eyes and peer into the morning. A Man stood at his gate and it took everything Bilbo had not to sigh. Bungo had been known for his ability to make amendments to contracts. He had been known to make things _fair_ and _profitable_ for all parties involved. When Bilbo had been a young faunt, the Men and Hobbits that came to their smial had not been for Belladonna (no, the ones who wanted Belladonna had known to send word from the Green Dragon, as was proper), no they had been for Bungo. Bilbo’s memories were filled with parchment after parchment trickling through the front door, and Bungo’s favour box over-flowing with seed and coin.

Bungo had been good at what he did but Bilbo (and this was not flattery. No this was known fact) was better. Privately, Bilbo rather thought contracts had been getting rather sloppy of late but who was he to argue when his favour box was full and his larder was stocked?

This Man was rather shabby, dressed all in grey, and if Bilbo was being honest, looked to need a good scrub down. It was not hard to guess who the man was. Bilbo remembered him for two reasons. The first was tinged with faunt jealousy, for Gandalf the Grey had taken Belladonna Baggins nee Took on a grand adventure and left Bilbo to his father and stuffy old books. The second was tween apprehension. Gandalf the Grey, Bungo had warned his faunt, did not belong to any one court, and instead stood between several. He was not man, and he was not god, nor was he anything in-between. Gandalf simply _was_ and it was safer for all those involved that Gandalf did not learn what the Baggins were in truth.

Bungo did not begrudge his wife her friendship with the odd being, but he did not want Bilbo involved with him either. Belladonna had not pushed the matter, not when Bilbo had scuttled away from Gandalf the one time the ‘man’ had tried to give him a sweet. Like all Baggins, Bilbo knew Gandalf was _other_ and like all Baggins, Bilbo knew better then to try and hold contract with the ‘man’. One did not negotiate with those between courts after all. Their words didn’t _stick_.

But to spar verbally? On Shire land where Baggins words couldn’t hold without paper? Bilbo should only be so lucky.

“Good morning.” Bilbo hummed, content to let his leaf smolder in the pipe.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, his eyes sparkling under the brim of his hat. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"*

Bilbo worked to stifle a grin. The fear he had been taught as a faunt no where to be found. This was what it was like to speak to a wizard. They spoke much but said very little, and it did not escape his notice the wizard did not wish him a good morning back.

"All of them at once, I suppose." Said Bilbo.* For some reason, Bilbo didn’t think Gandalf appreciated the snark.

“I sent word from the Green Dragon.” Gandalf eventually murmured, his shoulders slumping as seconds ticked by and the door to Bag End did not open to Belladonna’s smiling face.

And oh, that hurt. Bilbo had sent word when his mother had passed against the wishes of the Baggins. Bilbo had waited and waited, held off putting her in the ground as long as he could, hoping against hope that Belladonna’s good friends would come to help bury her. Bilbo himself had been but a tween, not yet of age and waiting.

And waiting.

Eventually he had had no choice but to put his mother in the ground when not even a letter had arrived in condolences. She had been buried next to his father and in the following years, it was only Bungo’s will and Bilbo’s blood that kept him in Bag End.

“You missed her by about eighteen years.” Bilbo muttered, his good wit drying up in the face of this reminder of his mother’s passing. “I sent a letter.”

“Ah.” Gandalf winced, his staff thumping against the ground. “I had wondered why…”

Bilbo let him trail off without interruption. “Why are you here Gandalf?”

“I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”* Gandalf peered out at him from under his great hat and for a moment, Bilbo considered the wisdom of doubling over in laughter.

A Baggins. On an adventure? A Baggins leaving the Shire? Where words held contract and hobbits had already been hunted for the _other_ in their blood? That wasn’t just asking for a traveling companion, as Belladonna had often been, that was asking for suicide and a long drawn out death. The Baggins remembered the Wandering Years and still bore the marks of ill thought out contracts. Bilbo was not so arrogant to think he could do better then a whole clan of Hobbits.

Bilbo had not held onto Bag End for this long, only to lose it because some in-between couldn’t reach Bilbo’s mother and instead wanted to settle for second best. Besides, the Tooks were the adventurers. They held contract for somewhat safe travels (not everything could be accounted for and accidents did happen) and everyone knew all requests for a hobbit would pass first through the Thain long before a Baggins would be called to offer contract.

“An adventure? No, I don't imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner.”* Bilbo said, incredulous at the gall of the Man to even attempt to take a Baggins off of Bag Shot Row, let alone Shire land.

For a moment, Bilbo thought he had managed it. Gandalf had never bothered Bungo and Bilbo, for all that he knew Gandalf didn’t know the truth of Baggins blood, had always thought the Man knew just enough as to not anger the Baggins clan.

Apparently, Bilbo was wrong.

“Yes. Well, that's decided.” Gandalf said with a smirk, his great staff thumping against the fencepost once more. “It'll be very good for you and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.”

Before Bilbo could muster up protest, the wizard in grey had swept off down the lane, far faster then his age reported him able to move. Bilbo could feel his nose twitch in annoyance. This could not end well.

“Hamfast!” Bilbo hollered as he climbed to his feet, already searching for a scrap of paper to write upon. “Hamfast!” He called again.

“Yes, Master Baggins Sir?” Hamfast grumbled out with a smile as he wandered into the garden mere moments after the second call. Bilbo hardly offered him more then a wave, looking up only long enough to note a pair of sheers shoved deep in a pocket and the dirt that coated the bottom of his hems.

“I have some post I need your youngest to run.” Bilbo explained as he blew onto the letter he had just penned. It was hasty, hardly explanatory of the situation at all, but if Bilbo’s sudden suspicion was correct, this could very well save Bilbo before Gandalf utterly wrecked everything. “There’s a handful of coppers in it for him.”

Hamfast nodded along, taking the letters in good humour. “I’ll send him along later for payment then,” Hamfast tipped his head and whistled sharply, smiling gently when one of his many little ones scrambled over the fence, cheeks smeared with dirt, “take that to the market for Master Baggins.”

Bilbo did wait for the boy to scamper off before he was turning on his heel and marching back into Bag End. If Gandalf did manage to force Bilbo into a contract, there were several things that had to be taken care of first, and as Otho had proven that morning, contracts didn’t care for how or why the signee gave away their name, only that they did.

“I’ll take care of the rune carved into the fencepost then?”

One hand on the door, Bilbo paused only for a moment before deciding he really didn’t want to know. “Hamfast, I doubt you would be able to do anything, but you’re welcome to try.” Bilbo called over his shoulder as he kicked aside one of the many boxes piled in his front entry.

There were too many contracts to look over and not enough time, and that wasn’t even including the dinner Bilbo would have to cook if he had his stories Belladonna had spoken of ever so fondly, remembered correctly. Gandalf never did anything less then full chaos and with less promises then a Baggins on a wedding day.

No, Bilbo didn't think today was going to be a good day at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All sentences with the * placed beside it, are original lines from the script or book. I place no claim to them at all.  
> Comment if there's any questions or you just want to say something! I love the comments either way!


	3. The Miner and the Shire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those of you who are new to me, each chapter has individual warnings if I feel the tags are not enough. If one of you guys thinks that said warning should be upgraded to a story tag, tell me and i'll make it happen. I don't want anybody triggered and so far this is a system that has worked rather well.  
> On a happier topic, this is getting updated because every time I finish a project I'm letting myself have some fun before I start the next problem school has dumped in my lap.  
> This story has also exploded literally overnight and I'm kinda in shock. So, for all of you guys who have read this, liked it, and/or commented, I love you all.  
> Warnings:  
> -small mention of disassociation  
> -small mention of self harm, not to main character (Bungo pokes something he shouldn't)  
> -on screen death of goblin (not graphic)  
> -mentions of off-screen character deaths (unnamed characters)  
> -information dump  
> I also moved around parts of the timeline to fit everything in. Sorry guys, but it needed to happen.  
> As always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost

When asked by his crew mates why he had joined the company, Bofur had loudly exclaimed about free meals and free beer.

He wasn’t sure what it meant when his mates, once able to sing a tune crude and crass along to the drumming beat of their pickaxes and hammers, only pursed their lips and patted him on the shoulder with nary a word. Bofur had been in this crew since he had struck lucky in an apprenticeship.

Mining was not his craft, wasn’t what he would have chosen to do with his life, but with an uncle struck near dumb due to an axe to the head ( _he had been protecting the late prince Frerin, laddie. Prince Thorin Oakenshield ordered the best care for him)_ during the battle of Azanulbizar and no money to keep up the medicines needed for his Uncle who probably would have become something more akin to a father if it hadn't been for that bloody axe, Bofur hadn’t had a choice.

His uncle couldn’t work. Oh, Bifur could manage well enough as a guard but the real money came from the caravans and with that axe in the head and the loss of common on his tongue (once Bifur had been a teacher. He had been a wonderful teacher, able to spin tales and teach both common, Khuzdul, and iglishmek. At one point, Bifur could read and write all three!) Bifur could not take the posts offered by the caravans.

Not that the coin from working the guard rotations hadn’t helped, but it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough.

Bofur, old enough to barely remember his amad and adad, old enough to know Bifur had stepped in before he and Bombur were turned out with nothing but the clothes on their backs, knew he had to step up. Bombur was young, just discovering his craft and had enough talent to actually _do_ something with it.

Had enough talent to stretch the reserves Bofur had half flinched and half paid for, from the measly three days Bifur had taught him before Azanulbizar, to a week. Bombur had taken the thin soups and half risen breads and made what had felt like feasts. He had done what Bofur would never manage to do and may Mahal disregard him in the forge, Bombur could be more then a washed-up soldier and a broken miner without a craft. He could be so much more.

Bombur was made for the kitchens. Bofur could handle the few years it took to put Bombur through his apprenticeship. He could do it. He could put aside his own craft. He could slog through the mines and pull the extra hours needed to maintain a roof over their heads, food on the table, and tonics beside Bifur's bed. He could do it.

So, he did.

Bofur marched out to the mines and begged until someone listened. He wasn’t yet of age, but that didn’t matter. It was only a decade or so off, not worth mentioning to the Forman and Bofur was desperate. This wasn’t his craft but he needed the money. He needed it.

Eventually the Forman had shook his head and dropped a contract in front of him. Bofur, with tears in his eyes signed shakily. (It was better, his mind hissed at him, then what his brother had to do. Bofur had been old enough to learn to sign his name under Bifur's tutelage. Bombur had to sign with an X.) The Forman had barely batted an eye, only dropped a too big hat onto Bofur's head and ordered him to the shafts.

But five years turned into ten, turned into fifteen, turned into twenty. And, well, mining wasn’t Bofur's craft but by that point, it might as well have been.

Bombur’s apprenticeship had gone well, Bifur was as stable as he was ever going to be, and Bofur was long past the age of apprenticeship.

(Bofur's ribs ached on the days Bifur couldn’t tell dwarrow from goblin or orc. Bombur would never raise a hand to the dwarf that had been the only father he had ever known. And, while Bofur hadn’t liked it either, somedays it wasn’t that hard to shout a battle cry back. Some days the mines were too dark and the shifts too long and the anger too much, and the fight was just _right._ )

The nobles liked to boost that no drawf was kept from his craft. Bofur would have liked those stuck up pricks to come down to his level of Ered Luin and say that to the pebbles that had all the making of goldsmiths but would probably never hold anything more then a copper coin in their hands. The Blue Mountians was host to a colony that had never flourished and a whole mountain of refugees no one else would take. Ered Luin was dying and Bofur saw it starkly in the cheekbones of the pebbles and the desperate stares of the dams.

Ered Luin was dead already, it was only the mines that had kept them all going this long.

(It wasn’t free beer and free meals that had Bofur signing on in a shaky hand. Not really. It was the longer shifts and then fewer veins that had him practicing his signature.)

Bofur had grown up bouncing from one vein to the next, a pickaxe on his shoulder and a too big hat on his head. It wasn’t until a few years after his coming of age, that he realized anything was odd. The shafts Bofur worked were always stable, the veins were always easily accessible, and there had only been cave ins a handful of times. For all the years Bofur had mined, there had also never been a gas leak or a flood in the tunnels he had led a crew through.

It wasn’t until Bofur had stumbled home three days late and his knuckles bleeding from where he had punched a support beam, that he had realized. Over forty years in the mines and every cave in he had personally witnessed had happened _behind_ him.

Stone blessed Bifur had used to call it when Bombur had innocently asked how he knew which pebble had snuck up on him during naptime.

More like stone cursed.

Fourteen Dwarrow laid to stone because Bofur couldn’t tell something was wrong. Fourteen dwarrow that had not been Bofur's crew but his responsibility all the same. Fourteen deaths Bofur could have prevented if he had only _known_.

A week later Bofur, with his knuckles wrapped and his hat firmly on his head, stumbled out of the abandoned mines the pebbles sometimes used as playgrounds, and _listened._ Bofur had spent most of his childhood and all of his adult life working at a craft that wasn’t his own and at this point he figured if there was anyone who could take something and make it theirs, it was him.

The Blue Mountains, Bofur realized quite quickly, were screaming. Their bones were picked clean and their veins bled dry. They had held on, the mountains whispered between gasping shouts, for as long as they could, but please, please, they murmured, you have to move on.

Bofur carefully adjusted his hat and pretended to be deaf.

Where could he have gone anyway?

In contrast, the stone walls of his house sang a gentle tune, soothing and peaceful. When Bofur had tilted his head back, taken his hat off and hummed along, it was to the stunning realization _Bifur sang along_ _too_.

For the first time in near forty years, Bofur watched as his Uncle, the dwarf that had raised him, signed Bofur's name and asked him how his day had been.

(Somehow, in the midst of worrying over his uncle, hammering out the contract for Bombur's apprenticeship, and seizing as many shifts as he could get, Bofur had forgotten Bifur had the strongest stone sense of any in Ered Luin. Strong enough that the priests of Mahal had tried to recruit him before the war. Strong enough that the priests still sent a small stipend to Bifur even after the axe and the loss of common. With the axe in his head, the screams the doctor said might still ring in his ears, and the screaming of the mountain, Bofur now knew Bifur had to have been hearing the entire time, was it no wonder the dwarf had never found his way out of his head before?)

(Was it no wonder he hadn’t tried?)

Bombur had cried when he had stumbled home and saw not only his brother, but his Uncle, sitting at the table, a pebble’s game of dice laid out on the table in front of them. He had nearly squeezed Bifur to death when the dwarf turned and signed a praise over the smell of fresh bread wafting out from the sack Bombur had brought home.

Bofur hadn’t prayed to Mahal since Bifir had been brought home, distant and _broken._ Hadn’t bowed his head and worried a discarded piece of slag between his fingers since he had screamed for a contract at the mines. But, that night, with Bombur slumped on a chair and Bifur twisting a block of wood in his hand for the first time since Azanulbizar, Bofur slipped his hand under the thin mattress, grasped the prayer stone his amad had used when carrying Bombur, and cried.

The next day, eyes still red rimmed but with a skip in his step, Bofur marched his way to the mines. He was to take a crew down to the lowest point. There had been whispers that one of the iron veins hadn’t been bled dry quiet yet and Bofur could feel the steady hum of what he thought might be iron in one of the abandoned tunnels.

Only, when Bofur got to the mines, the foreman shook his head. They hadn’t finished digging out the bodies from the last cave in and, _I’m sorry Bofur, I’m not sending you to die today._

Suddenly, it was all too much. Bifur’s now bright eyes and Bombur’s quiet presence as he struggled to learn the writing Bofur had never mastered and Bifur could no longer teach, was too much. Bofur’s pickaxe had hit the ground and he was a half day away from Ered Luin before he knew what he was doing.

Maybe in another world, another time, Bofur would have walked back to the house and taken the boon that was a day off with quiet relief. But he didn’t. There had to be something. There had to be something out there beyond Ered Luin. There had to be somewhere where the ground didn’t scream, and the mountains didn’t heave dying breaths.

There had to be s _omething._

And suddenly, there was. There was a lass, screaming obscenities and waving about a tree branch that was ridiculously large, and a goblin dancing about with a rather long rusted spear. Bofur might have been lost in his head but he had also been carrying about an anger that had first pushed him into the mines and later pushed him to continue going back. He had an anger welling up in his veins and for the first time in what felt like forever, there convenient target to hit.

It was the lass that had pulled him off the goblin, the foul beast crushed into a pile of gore. His knuckles had been split open anew, and Bofur was drained. He was tired, sore, and ready to curl up in the forest that he had somehow ended up in. Looking up, Bofur was about to thank and question the lass in equal measure, when the odd shape of a tree branch slugged him across the face.

In retrospect, he had probably deserved that.

Waking up, Bofur had realized two things simultaneously. The first was that he was rather embarrassingly tied to a tree with his boots strung up high above his head, the second was that the lass had rather large feet. His third thought was that the lass obviously wasn’t a dwarf but Mahal strike him with a hammer, she certainly swung that branch with the same strength of any dam Bofur knew.

The interrogation went rather quickly after the lass swung a ladle under his nose. Bofur had long since been taught by Bombur that a few conks to the head with a ladle was just as deadly as a mattock. It also came to light rather quickly that Bofur had wandered into the tail end of a chase that had been going on for nearly a week. The lass would only admit to carrying something of great importance and the goblins had been running after her since she had tried to take a short cut close to Ered Luin in hopes of staying in an inn overnight. Bofur, stepping out of the woods with a battle cry on his lips and a wild light in his eyes had only startled the lass long enough for her to stumble back and regain her breath. She had then hit him with the tree branch. Bofur still didn’t know what he had said to make her look at him with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, before she bent to untie him.

_Belladonna_ , she said her name was, _Belladonna Took and I am a hobbit._ _You look like you need a place to go, Master Dwarf._

And may Mahal bar him from his halls, Bofur took the lass’ hand and followed her further into the woods, stopping only long enough to shimmy up the tree and steal back his boots. A week later, Bofur was stepping into the Shire and for the first time in his life, Bofur realized the screaming in his ears echoed less.

The Shire was built on farmland and despised all things stone. Bofur could have happily kissed the lass for that realization alone, if it weren’t for the fact that the moment he had spun to thank Belladonna for a boon she couldn’t have known to give him, a frying pan caught the edge of his temple and Bofur went down like a sack of hammers.

At least this time, Bofur didn’t wake up tied to a tree.

Instead, there was a shame faced hobbit lad wringing his hands and an irritated Belladonna lecturing the lad not about knocking out her companion, but about proper form and not denting her second-best frying pan. Personally, Bofur had thought that if that was her second-best frying pan, he would have hated to be hit with her favorite.

Whatever else Belladonna had been nattering on about, Bofur hadn’t heard, not when he caught sight of where he had been dragged too. Once again, his boots were strung up, but this time it was from a crossbeam. Bofur couldn’t bring himself to care. He was laying in the hollowed-out burrow of a hill and for the first time since he had stepped into the mines, Bofur was near his craft.

Bofur couldn’t have said what the room was supposed to be, but he knew _where_ he was. He was in a master craftsman’s workshop. Specifically, he was in a carpenter’s shop. Bofur couldn’t have named half of the tools discarded across the floor and the thought stung.

He was too old to be an apprentice.

He had given all of this up years, decades, ago.

He could…

The hobbit lad knelt in front of him. “Know anything about carpentry?”

Bofur shook his head in shame. This was his craft, this was what was supposed to put food on the table and tonics by his Uncle’s bed. This was what was supposed to carry him through his life and later into Mahal’s halls.

And he didn’t know a damn thing about it.

The hobbit lad had nodded for a moment before he shifted to quickly look at Belladonna. “My betrothed vouched for your character and this project is a bit bigger than I could do on my own.” The hobbit stood, his hands on his hips and his lips quirking up into a smile. “How would you like to help me, Master Dwarf? Consider it payment for the lump I put in your skull.”

For the first time since Bifur had come back with an axe in his head, Bofur put his head in his hands and cried in relief.

In front of him, the hobbit climbed to his feet. “Let’s make a contract then.”

In the end, the contract was remarkably simple. Bofur would spend the winter helping Master Baggins build the smial and learning all he could. Bofur’s payment would be in room and board, anything extra he would have to provide himself. (During the hashing out of the terms, Bungo murmured that he would also teach Bofur how to carve. With the amount of pebbles running around the Shire, Bofur could easily make a pretty penny by selling toys alone.) As it was early spring, Bofur would have time to go back to Ered Luin and make arrangements to come back shortly before winter set in. Numb, Bofur hadn’t done anything aside from nod frantically and sign his name in a shaky red ink.

Two weeks later, Bofur was slinking back into his house, fist tight on the contract. At the table, Bombur looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in days. Bifur hardly looked better, and all the guilt Bofur had managed to keep away during his sudden ‘trip’ reared its ugly head. Bombur and Bifur looked at him as if seeing a ghost, and in the silence, Bofur placed the contract on the table and in a broken voice admitted he had found his craft.

Bombur had stood up, his expression stern, and turned to the oven, carefully pulling out what looked to be either a very white loaf of bread or a fluffy cake Bombur had spoken about as a lad. “Bifur said you would be coming back today with good news. I rather think he had understated it.” He broke out into a smile. “Have some cake and then we can go to the scribes and register your contract nadad.”

Across from Bombur, Bifur held out a hand, letting the objects fall from his fingers with a slight grin. For a moment, all Bofur could so was stare as a pebble’s version of dice clattered onto the table. Bofur had cleaned this house from top to bottom on every day off he had ever had. He had managed both his uncle and his brother, found secerts hidden in corners that he never wanted to know, and had hidden more then his own fair share of things too. But, this was the first time he had ever seen those dice.

“He made them, a few days after you left.” Bombur murmured when he turned around to see why Bofur had fallen silent. “I don’t know why but…”

“No.” Bofur whispered as he picked up the dice, noting the fine etching in on the sides. Now that he knew what to look for, it wasn’t hard to notice that this set was new and from the maker’s mark on the side, from his uncle’s hand. “It’s perfect.”

That winter, Bofur worked alongside Bungo Baggins, the screams in his ears silenced and the anger brought to a low simmer. Neither Belladonna or Bungo questioned him on why he had appeared on that road all those months ago and Bofur had never offered a reason. By the end of the winter, Bag End, as Bofur had begun to call the smial, was near as complete as it was ever going to get.

Bofur was by no means an expert in his craft but he was content. Compared to where he had been before Belladonna had slugged him with that tree branch, Bofur was leagues better. Besides, the longer he labored beside Bungo, the more he had come to realize that he didn’t want to build as much as he wanted to craft smaller things. Bofur, curled up one night beside a cooling hearth, realized he wanted to make toys.

Bungo, long used to hearing Bofur murmur his thoughts aloud, had cracked open an eye over his pipe and nodded once. That night, Bofur had learned several things. The first was that Master Bungo had something similar to a stone sense, (even if the man had waved a hand in a so-so manner, Bofur had long since known how to recognize those who could sense _other._ He wasn’t about to make that mistake again. No, he had learned that lesson with his Uncle.) the second was that hobbits had several secrets, possibly even more then the dwarrow. The third was that Bungo had never bound him to contract.

Bofur had raged at that, shouted about the unfairness of working for months only to be unable to prove a thing to his own people about being taught. Bungo had let him shout until he was hoarse before calming telling Bofur that by dwarrow logic, Bofur _had_ been bound by contract, it was by Shire standard that he was not.

Contract, Bofur learned, was like dwarrow honour. Hobbits lived and died by contract and Bungo was not so harsh as to bind someone who knew not what they asked to a culture that would kill him for breaking faith. Bofur, silent under the sheer awe of the creature who had gained nothing but a companion and a student for free, had said nothing to this admittance.

The next morning, Bofur was led by Bungo to a cousin of his who specialized in toy making. It was with shaking hands that Bofur learned what a contracted needed to be made real in the Shire, and he was told three things. He was to never give his full name to anyone with the name Baggins. He was to never make a deal with a hobbit outside of the Shire. And, he was never to give iron to anyone in the Shire.

When Bofur had asked why, the two cousins had given each other long looks before Bungo had held out a hand. It had taken a moment for Bofur to realize Bungo was asking for the small axe Bofur had never taken off his hip, even when sleeping in Bag End. The sudden blistering of Bungo’s knuckles had told Bofur more then he had ever needed to know. The axe was forever stashed away in a box under Bofur’s bed after that, right next to a small bag of seed and a silver coin.

Two years later, with his contract expired and the Baggins clan declaring him a master of his craft, Bofur returned to Ered Luin. He returned to the mines but this time, on his days off, Bofur carved alongside Bifur, the two of them building a herd of toys for the quarterly caravans to take with them to other settlements of Man and Hobbit. The coin they received back was just enough to cover the expense of such a feat and to give them a small profit. For the first time in his life, Bofur knew what it was like to have more then a few copper coins hidden in the hollowed-out bedpost.

Part of him swore that he’d go back and thank Bungo again. That he’d go back and visit the hobbits that had changed his life, but it never happened. A letter came declaring the birth of one Bilbo Baggins and, overjoyed at the thought of Bungo and Belladonna being parents, Bofur and Bifur created a masterpiece for the child.

For the pebble’s first birthday, the Ur family sent a miniature Bag End, complete with three hobbit dolls and three dwarrow.

Bofur received back a letter that he could proudly read for himself (Bungo’s cousin had been appalled Bofur hadn’t been able to read, so Bofur had been sent to sit with the man’s pebbles, learning his letters by lamplight) declaring the ensemble the envy of the neighborhood.

There hadn’t been another letter since.

Forty-nine years later, Bofur signed onto a quest that was fool-hardy at best and then promptly wondered if it was too late to back out when he found himself standing outside of Bag End. What was even worse was that he was standing outside of Bag End staring at a rune burned into a fencepost that declared the sole inhabitant a burglar for hire.

Sole inhabitant.

Either Belladonna and Bungo had died, leaving their pebble to fend for himself, or the pebble had died alongside his parent. Bofur wasn’t sure which option was worse.

Still, if Tharkun had called them all to Bag End, then the company was probably here to make contract. It wasn’t as if they were about to drag Belladonna and Bungo’s little one out into the wilds.

Tharkun wouldn’t dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing that happened with the iron and Bungo's skin is based on what happens to me when I touch nickle. So, for those of you who don't know, a nickle reaction typically doesn't get as bad as what happened to Bungo. Typically after an hour, your skin is red and itches. With prolonged contact, the irritated area gets worse. The only time I've ever seen it get as bad as what I mentioned here in the story, is when I was an idiot and fell asleep on a nickle pendant. I woke up to an awesome scar. 10/10 would not recommend you do.  
> I also feel like I should apologize for any names I get wrong, as I mentioned in a previous note, my book is currently MIA and I'm writing this between projects so my research is based on what I remember from a few months back. If you guys see something glaringly obvious, point it out in the comments below. I'll get to it as soon as I can.  
> Have fun and I'll talk to you all soon!  
> -Lost


	4. Faithbreakers of all kinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All,  
> Not much has changed on my end. Still staying home and banging my head against the wall over essays and exams. That's probably the only good thing that has come out of this entire situation, I have time to do homework. Now, if I do it is an entirely different matter. (Do you're homework kids.)  
> So, new chapter and I apologize that its so much information being dropped at once but I couldn't find any other way to break it up. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the cannon timeline and some ages have been moved around to make things work better for my own timeline. We will also eventually make it out of the shire but thats probably not going to be for another two chapters at least. I think...  
> Anyway, as always, have fun, enjoy and pretty please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost

Bilbo never made it to the market after Gandalf had come calling. Instead, at some point between second breakfast and elevenses, far too soon for any respectable company to come about for tea, (that is to say, anyone who was a Baggins, which really only left three quarters of the Shire) the door to Bag End flew open with such force Bilbo could hear the commotion in his study.

Cursing quietly (never let it be said the Baggins were anything other then _proper_ ), Bilbo scrambled up to his feet. It was too soon in the day for Otho to have heard anything and Otho, while rat like and generally as pleasant as finding a slug hidden in tea leaves, had never been one for physical confrontation. Besides, Lobelia had been careful. She had assured Bilbo she had been careful. As far as Otho knew, Lobelia was on an extended trip to her mother's. Otho could not have known.

He _couldn’t_ have.

Keen ears twitching at what sounded like ire and crass being shouted from his front door, Bilbo had a hand on his fire poker and was slipping out of the study as quietly as he could. Surely Otho wouldn’t be so stupid as to try and dissuade Bilbo from helping Lobelia.

Surely, Otho couldn’t be as stupid as all that?

Then again, clause 33 had been about making sure Lobelia wouldn’t wear those ‘pink monstrosities’ whatever that meant. So, really, should Bilbo have been too surprised? Probably not.

Adjusting his grip on the fire poker, Bilbo barely rounded the corner before he was skidding backwards, his heels pointed towards the sky and his back dusting the floors Bilbo had neglected for near on a week.

“Shame on you Old Took! Shame on you. Oh, sorry Bilbo, maybe you should get up. Shame on you, old man!” Primula Brandybuck scolded as she stepped over Bilbo.

For one thing, Bilbo was happy the lass had at least had the foresight to be wearing trousers, for another…

“Prim!?” Bilbo definitely did not squeak as he let hid head thump back against the floor.

Oh yes, this was going to be a horrid morning indeed. Not only had a wizard defaced his fence post, but his own cousin had marched through his front door without letting him get a word in edgewise. He still had boxes to go through, contracts to read, and that wasn’t even mentioning Gandalf and trying to figure out what that In-Betweener was doing, and Bilbo really did not have time for this.

A hand slipped into his vision. “Up you get. We don’t want the lass to think you dead already.”

Bilbo took the hand of his Grandfather and tried not to marvel at the sheer strength the old hobbit carried with ease, as he pulled his much younger grandson to his feet.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Bilbo muttered as he stumbled away from his grandfather, sheepishly putting the bronze poker against the wall.

His Grandfather simply shook his head.

“Bilbo! Where in Yavanna's bodice did you put your tea?” Prim hollered from the kitchen, the accompanying banging of Bilbo's drawers making him wince.

“Oh, she's worked herself up into a lather now, hasn’t she?” Grandfather hummed, slipping Bilbo a wink and a squeeze on the shoulder as he sauntered into the kitchen.

Bilbo blinked after him. Confusion didn’t begin to cover it. Prim was a young, sweet thing. The youngest of Gerontius’ grandchildren, she often got away with things that even _Bilbo_ had been hard pressed to swindle away from the old man. If he had tried to curse like that, Bilbo would have found a one-way ticket to pinched ears and foul-tasting soap shoved between his teeth. And he had been Belladonna's only child, for Yavanna's sake. Gerontuis’ favorite daughter! But that wasn’t what was important at the moment, no what was more intriguing was what Prim was doing here, in Hobbition, away from Brandybuck Hall, with their grandfather.

Gathering up his Took courage, Bilbo poked his head into his kitchen, eyebrows raising at the sight of Prim stretching up on her toes to reach one of Bilbo's more delicate teacups. Chuckling at the sight, Bilbo easily went to help her gather both tea and teacups, shooing the tween to the table when she began to turn up underfoot.

It was probably for the better he didn’t ask why Prim felt the need to bring out the fine china. It was one thing to blame the use of heirlooms for errant tea parties on propriety and being proper, it was quiet another to acknowledge that Prim was a Brandybuck and their etiquette was a world onto itself. Heirlooms had never meant much to that clan and Bilbo had a feeling this little lass was feeding more into the Tookish sensibilities.

Heirlooms, the Tooks believed, were to be given to those in the thrall of anger. New things one could replace at the market. Replacing great Aunt Rose's china cups were much harder. And it was hard to be angry when you didn’t dare breathe wrong, less something breaks forever in your grip.

Belladonna had been a great believer in that whole concept.

“Dare I ask what prompted this visit?” Bilbo inquired smoothly as he set the kettle on the table, absently placing the sugar dish in front of his grandfather.

It wouldn’t do to get worked up in front of a tween. Besides, Bilbo had to speak to Grandfather anyway, this appeared to have saved him the trip.

“Old Took has something to tell you.” Prim stated, her eyes flashing in way that had Bilbo thinking fondly of his own mother.

There was something to be said about the Took spark. Brandybuck, Prim might be by name, but as the Baggins had always whispered over contract, blood would always out.

Absently, Bilbo tugged Prim's curls with a frown. The faunt had always been unfailingly polite. Even when another gaggle of faunts brought down the roof of Brandybuck Hall, Prim had been a smiling little angel. A good portion of Bilbo had always wondered how much of that was an act, especially when some faunts had turned up with tattered hems and muddied coats, Prim in perfect condition minus the smug grin on her face.

Took girl she was, Baggins cunning she had. All wrapped up in a Brandybuck package. Bilbo pitied the hobbit who tried to court her.

“Be kind.” Bilbo admonished as he doctored her tea with a dash of milk and honey. “He is your grandfather.”

Prim aggressively sipped ag her tea.

Grandfather winced.

Bilbo looked down into his cup. It truly was going to be one of _those_ days wasn’t it. Maybe he should doctor his tea with something a little stronger than milk. The image of Gandalf tapping his fence post scampered across his mind and Bilbo stared into the depths of his cup with a scowl. Oh yes, he was certainly going to have to doctor this with something a little stronger.

Bilbo's cup hit the table with a little more strength then was strictly necessary. “Whatever it is will have to wait.” Bilbo gritted through his teeth, his fingers tight on the cup. “There has been an incident.”

Gerontius jolted, his teacup (one of Great Aunt Rose's prize collection, Bilbo thought. Rather difficult to obtain when Aunt Rose had young, let alone now, some century and a bit since her birth) falling the inch between his hand and the table, startling them all. Cursing, Gerontius grabbed at the tea towel crumpled on the corner of the table and began to mop up the mess.

Prim, tween innocence facing her eyes, stared at Bilbo with an open mouth. “Bilbo?”

For a moment, Bilbo wanted to close his eyes and pretend that Gerontius' cursing was one of the rare times his father had lost his temper and mother was just around the corner. Giggling into her hand as she was wont to do when Bungo had hit the roof. They might have been dead eighteen years, but some days the pain was fresher than others.

“Are you sure?” Gerontius eventually managed to hiss, the whole mess pushed to one side of the table. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Bilbo would have been insulted if it hadn’t been for the fact the last _incident_ had been Bilbo inadvertently becoming both head of the Baggins clan and Master of Bag End in one fell swoop. “Near eighteen years I've kept matters in house, Thain. No incidents. No Bonders. No need for anyone to come knocking on the doors of the Shire. Are you to turn me away the moment I seek council?”

The words were stiff and heavy with the hint of _contract_ underlining them, and Bilbo watched with a keen eye as Gerontius went from bumbling grandfather speaking to two errant grandchildren, to the Thain speaking to one of the Masters.

“No.” The Thain whispered, his shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. “No. Let’s hear it.”

Bilbo stifled the thin wisp of sympathy curling up his shoulder. If it wasn’t Bilbo who petitioned first, it would have been Lobelia, and nobody deserved that first thing in the morning.

(Bilbo might be helping Lobelia but that certainly didn’t mean he _liked_ her.)

“There is a faithbreaker in your lands.” Bilbo forced the words to remain civil.

Beside him, Prim's hands clasped over her mouth even as her cheeks paled.

If possible, the Thain's shoulders hunched further. “And who be he who broke faith?”

And this, this is where Bilbo had to force himself to remain sitting and not to let the curl of _other_ into his voice. Shire land stopped Bilbo's words from _sticking_ but it couldn’t stop other beings from recognizing the undercurrent of _other._ And, like all Baggins, if Otho’s name was snarled with even a smackering of _other_ , he would hear it.

He would hear it and he would come to call.

“Otho Baggins.”

The Thain paused, his brow furrowing as he looked at Bilbo in surprise. In all of Shire history no Baggins had ever been accused of being a faithbreaker. Every instance of faithbreakers had been pockets of Men and Dwarrow. They were dealt with swiftly, often before the communities from where they hailed, noticed a problem.

Bilbo slowly inclined his head. “Otho Baggins stole himself a bride. His contract offered at the marriage was not the one agreed upon at the time of the betrothal. His bride’s blood had been mixed into the ink. A coin had been strung about her neck. A bag of flaxen seed sewn into her skirts. And an admission of consent wrung from her lips without her being wiser to the change in contract.”

The Thain looked positively faint.

Quite frankly, Bilbo didn’t care. “Otho Baggins not only stole himself a bride. He bought one.”

And that was the most damning thing of all. A favour box was a way to negate debts. It made the signee able to walk away without being bound by contract to owe the patron anything. Etiquette might force someone to repay a Baggins outside of the favour box, but it was not contract that bound them to it.

What Otho had done was place claim on Lobelia. She was _his._ Lobelia had not given Otho the tokens, she had _been_ the tokens in the eyes of the contract.

How the contract hadn’t _killed_ Lobelia in the first month of the marriage, Bilbo didn’t know. That Lobelia had managed five years under the thumb of her owner (Otho deserved to be thrown into Yavanna's compost bin for this) was not just admirable and near impossible.

See, what Otho had done was break faith. He had switched out the contracts, the contracts Lobelia had already read and signed at the beginning of the courting stage. (Bilbo still had the copy, had read it and thought it strange even when it was filed, but Lobelia's parents had read it and deemed it acceptable so Bilbo hadn’t argued.)

(He should have argued.)

Lobelia, caught up in the whirlwind romance, had thought it a good idea to slip a seed from her mother's [prized pumpkins and a silver coin from her Grandmother, into the envelope when the contract was filed.

When the wedding came, Lobelia hadn’t wondered about the lack of seed or silver because she had already signed the contract. You can’t sign the same contract twice, after all. You can’t be double bond. Not on Shire land. She also hadn’t wondered because Otho had been plying her with Gamnee liquor and Lobelia had always been a lightweight. Everyone assumed it was wedding nerves when she stumbled down the aisle. Bilbo had snickered at the sight.

He wasn’t snickering now.

“Otho Baggins broke faith of his bride, of his community, of this land, and,” if Bilbo had been a more vindictive fellow, he might have smiled, “he broke faith with his clan.”

The only reason Bilbo had sent Lobelia away that morning was because Bilbo couldn’t cast Otho out alone. The Shire protected all her people and even the Master of the Baggins was subject to Shire Law. The Thain needed to be appealed to and the Thain needed to vote.

In the eyes of the Shire, there was not much of a difference between a faithbreaker and an oath breaker. Anyone who broke contract either by spirit or deed, became _twisted_. Depending on which category the individual fell into was where things became tricky. Shire land negated most of the effects of a break in faith or oath. But the moment a breaker stepped off Shire land, the affects hit full force.

Depending on the weight of the contract, depended on how the affects came in. Broken whispers in ears, loss of sight or feeling in limbs, the failing of crops or businesses, sudden illness or death of family and friends. Rarely did the contract aim for the breaker, instead working to whittle away at everything else, tearing down the benefits the contract had created in the first place. Most of the time, the affects drove the breaker mad anyway.

For a hobbit, this fate was worse than death. For a people that valued family, food, and drink more then anything else, the threat of a contract against kin did more damage then the death of the signee.

Any folk that came through the Shire looking for a Baggins contract was warned thrice before hashing out the term, thrice before drafted, and thrice before signed. Otho knew the risks long before he cooked up this arrogant plan.

The Thain nodded once. “So be it upon the faithbreaker’s head.”

The unpleasantness dealt with, Bilbo went to gather his bottle of Gaffer liquor and two glasses. His Grandfather hardly waited for the two fingers to be poured before he was knocking back the drink.

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo startled, his hands scrambling across the table for the nocked over glass. To be honest, he had forgotten Prim was sitting at the table. “Yes?”

Prim licked her lips nervously. “Did Otho really…” she trailed off, her eyes wide, “did he really break faith?”

Bilbo ran a hand through the tween's curls. “He will be dealt with.” He said firmly, a narrow-eyed glare shot at his grandfather in warning.

Prim nodded, his curls bouncing about her head. “Are the Bounders going to get him or…”

Grandfather suddenly looked very old, the lines around his eyes deeper and more pronounced as he rubbed a hand over his temple. “He will be dealt with.”

Bilbo didn’t bother to shoot him another look. If the Thain didn’t send Bounders out to deal with the man, then the Shire would get him first. With both Baggins head and the Thain casting him out and declaring him a breaker, the rebound of the contract would kill him long before a Bounder knocked on the door to bring him to Michael Delving. From the look Grandfather was giving him, he knew it too.

As much as Lobelia deserved to get justice and a healthy dose of revenge, letting the Shire get to the man was probably safer for all those involved. At least this way, Otho's death could be explained as an accident in the night. There was no need to start a panic in the Shire.

“Every contract he ever drafted will have to be reviewed.” Bilbo sighed as he poured himself a shot. “I'd do it myself, but there’s something else I need to speak to you about.”

“It can wait.” Prim suddenly broke in, her teacup creaking under the strain. “I mean, it will have to wait. Grandfather has something to tell you.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. To be fair, in the chaos of declaring Otho a breaker, he had rather forgotten Prim's dramatic entrance. “Oh, and what is it?”

Whatever it was, Bilbo comforted himself, it couldn't be worse the Otho's arrogance. Short of the Shire being on fire or the summer festival being canceled, there wasn’t much Bilbo had to worry about aside from Lobelia and her unborn child. They would need a stipend and Bilbo doubted the woman would want to live in Otho's house after the deed reverted into her name. That reminded him, Bilbo would have to annul the marriage in the official records.

Dear Yavanna, this was a day and a half, and it wasn’t even elevenses yet!

Grandfather suddenly seemed to be wearing the look every Took had when they thought themselves so very clever. The one with the small little smile, twinkling eyes, and rosy cheeks that screamed ‘innocent'.

Bilbo wasn’t fooled. “What did you do?”

“Why do you think I did anything?” Grandfather exclaimed, a hand falling over his heart as he stared at Bilbo with a wide-eyed pout.

Bilbo switched his gaze to Prim. “What did he do?” he demanded before a horrible thought occurred to him. “Was it a contact?”

“Oh no! No. No. Certainly not!” Prim hastened to explain, her hands dropping away from her cold tea to wrap around Bilbo's fingers. “No, I'm sorry dear, it has to do with your parents.”

There was ice crawling down his spine, and the snarl of wolves echoed in Bilbo's ears. Prim clutched his fingers tighter. “I…”

Prim gave a wobbly little smile before she slipped a hand into her trouser pocket. “I think these are yours.”

A small bundle of letters fell onto the table and for a moment, Bilbo didn’t know what to do. He knew that handwriting, had improved it greatly since he had penned all those letters eighteen years ago.

“Please tell, Grandfather, you didn’t make me bury your daughter with none of her friends on purpose.” Bilbo's words might not _stick_ but he still knew how to make his words hit where they would hurt the most.

Grandfather flinched back.

“Tell me that you didn’t make me bury my mother next to my father, alone, because of some foolish idea that outsiders shouldn’t be allowed into the Shire. Tell me you didn’t make me dig her grave, alone, and lower her body, alone, because you over road my mother’s will.” Bilbo wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t even angry. He’d have to feel something other then tired to be angry.

“We needed a Baggins head.” Grandfather said, his voice some how steady as he reached for the bottle in the corner. “It was either you or your uncle.”

Bilbo leaned back in his seat. He couldn’t even say he didn’t understand. He had been two seconds away from bolting at the time of Belladonna's death. Too scared to be alone in a too big smial, too afraid to go to Tuckborough, too Took to not look to the road, and too Baggins not to remember the promise to his mother to have one great adventure.

If Bilbo had been supported after Belladonna’s death by people not of the Shire. By people who were not Hobbit. Bilbo would have lost the standing needed to inherit the Baggins head. It was him or his uncle to take on the position. There was no other option. Belladonna had been taking care of the paperwork and tenants in Bilbo's stead, waiting until he would take back the reins after his coming of age.

Only, Belladonna had died short of the milestone and Grandfather had had a choice to make. Bilbo or his uncle. It was no secret that Bilbo's uncle had never gotten on with the Old Took. And Bilbo? Grandfather had always adored his favorite daughter's son.

Eighteen years Bilbo had floundered. Eighteen years, Bilbo had forced himself to set aside Tookish ways and accept the Baggins respectability. Eighteen years he had stood beside old men on the council who thought a too young Bilbo was inappropriately promoted. Eighteen years Bilbo had sat alone in Bag End, wondering if his mother's good friends had only loved her for her usefulness. Eighteen years Bilbo had wondered if that was why none of his so-called Aunts and Uncles had ever come to see him.

There was an anger boiling under his skin and hissing in his ears. Eighteen years Bilbo had been left alone. If Bilbo had been any more Took and a lot less Baggins, his Grandfather would be dealing with more then a stony silence. Bungo had not thought well of Bilbo's Tookish anger and had cuffed Bilbo about the head on more then one occasion when the rage itched under Bilbo's skin.

Anger would do no one good, not when a Baggins lived by word and deed. Contracts could not be written in anger. Agreements could not be created with grudges. And peace would not last with rage.

Hence why Bilbo's smial still held heirloom upon heirloom. Those who lived in glass houses could not throw stones after all.

Prim squeezed at his wrist. “Do you want me to see Grandfather out?”

On any other day, Bilbo might have shaken his head, plastered on the most Baggins smile he could, and lead Grandfather out the door with all the general politeness of a gracious host. Bilbo did not have that luxury today.

“Gandalf the Grey came for a visit today.” Bilbo said before taking a slow drink. “He said he was looking for someone to share an adventure.”

There was a half-baked plan forming in the back of Bilbo's mind. With the problem of Otho's contracts having to be reviewed and amended, Lobelia’s housing and stipend, the tenants, the annual taxes due in less than a month, and goodness knows what else was slipping his mind, Bilbo shouldn’t have even been contemplating the plan at all.

Grandfather looked incensed. “All postings are supposed to come through me!”

Bilbo took another sip, letting the burn of the liquor turn the words he wanted to shout back, into ash. “He is _the_ disturbed of the Peace.” Bilbo remarked quietly over the rim of his glass. His shouts of _liar_ , _traitor_ , _breaker_ , quickly stifled under his tongue.

“You will not go.” Grandfather blustered, his cheeks ruddy as he flicked a gaze between Bilbo and Prim, eventually leaving his stare on Prim, as if expecting her to back him. “There are young Tooks chomping at the bit to be released outside of the Shire. I will not send a Baggins to do a Took job.”

Grandfather was not wrong. This year had seen the largest amount of hopeful travel contracts in a near decade. Bilbo had been forced to sit down with more then one young Took since the snow had melted and ask if the Took truly knew what they were doing. It was one thing to take a lark up to Bree. It was another to petition to join a caravan and travel with the merchants of Men.

Bilbo hadn’t lost a Took signee yet and he wasn’t about to now.

Bilbo's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the anger had been fighting to keep banked, roared to life. “I seem to remember that my mother was also a Took.”

Bilbo himself, before his mother had passed, had dropped a carefully worded request to leave Shire land into the Thain's box. He had scoured the message boards and wandered near all the Shire waiting for the perfect opportunity. Knowing what he did now, Bilbo wondered if his mother's whispered apologies of ‘not this year darling, but maybe the next,’ was true. Had Bilbo's contract ever seen anything other then a hearth fire? Had he been cast aside year after year in order to groom the handpicked Master Baggins?

Grandfather opened and closed his mouth for a moment, before he slowly looked down at the tabletop. Bilbo didn’t fool himself into thinking the action was due to shame. “You cannot go.”

Prim beat Bilbo to the mark this time. “Shame on you!” She exploded, her chair toppling back as she stood, her hands slamming down on the table. “Shame on you Grandfather. Bilbo has done everything you ask! Everything. And now you tell him that he cannot do the one thing he wished to?”

Grandfather shot her a quelling look and Bilbo rolled his eyes at the action. “Sit down you Fool of a Took.” Bilbo sputtered in exasperation. “I know my responsibilities.”

Oh yes. He knew. Bilbo knew exactly what was expected of him. Had done the same routine day in and day out, year after year, from the moment Bungo thought him old enough to carry the post while dodging at his heels during the weekly walks of the land.

“I know my responsibilities.” Bilbo said again, glaring at his Grandfather. He doubted the old hobbit was going to be forgiven anytime soon. Not by either Prim or Bilbo. “And one of them is to hear out my mother's good friend when he asks for a favour, as any Baggins would do. And, should I agree to this favour? Well, Drogo has been doing rather well in our weekly meetings.”

Grandfather twitched.

Bilbo pretended not to notice. Drogo Baggins was just of age by the skin of his teeth and Bilbo had been grooming him with his father's permission for years. The boy was already older than Bilbo, when Bilbo had first taken up the mantle, and rather well trained. His father, Bilbo's uncle, (the same one Grandfather had not wanted as Master) was also trained as the spare heir to Bungo, when they were lads. If Drogo ran into any snags while Bilbo wasn’t there, Drogo would have a support system near a league wide to help him.

It was more than Bilbo himself had at Drogo's age.

Prim stared at him with wide eyes and in a flash, Bilbo remembered that Prim fancied Drogo. He barely had time to groan before she exploded into action.

“That's where he's been sneaking off to? I thought he was fooling around with Rosie Cotton!” Prim shrieked, her cheeks paling. “Oh, I've been awful to him!”

Bilbo hid a smile behind a quick cough. “He had mentioned you said something of the like, yes.”

Prim looked faint as she dragged the kettle back to the hearth. “Oh dear…”

Bilbo couldn’t help another eyeroll. Young love. Whatever would the world come to if a Took lass wasn’t mooning over some young hobbit. “You are underage.” Bilbo chided gently.

“Only for two years.” Prim shot back, a smug smile on her face. “And Rosie Cotton has got another three.”

“Yes, well…” Grandfather cleared his throat, “you still cannot go.”

“Drogo is older than I was, and no one has complained of his work yet.” Bilbo responded mildly. “Now, I do suspect elevenses has long come and gone. If you wouldn’t mind? I have some contracts to review.”

Prim caught his eye with a grimace, but she nodded along pleasantly enough. “Come along Grandfather, we had better get some lunch at the market.”

Bilbo didn’t bother to get up and show them out, his Baggins etiquette dying in the face of his Took anger. The likelihood of him going out on this adventure was slim, but he did owe Gandalf the time to at least listen to him, and while Bilbo would probably not walk out his door with contract for an adventure, he would at least house Gandalf’s adventurers for the night. From his Mother’s stories, Bilbo knew how badly adventures could be and Bilbo would be glad to at least give a quiet reprieve for one night.

Standing, Bilbo took the kettle off the hook and opened his pantry to stare into the depths almost blankly. He hoped Gandalf’s company was hungry, with the anger itching under his skin and the knowledge that it was too early in the season for Bilbo to practice conkers without raising at least a few eyebrows, the only other option was to cook.

A very old hobbit proverb that was. Food can solve any situation. And what food couldn’t fix, tea would.

Until it was closer to lunch, Bilbo wouldn’t start cooking. He had some correspondence to write first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has read this, left kudos, bookmarked, and/or commented, you've made my day! Keep up the good work and I hope you are all enjoying the story.


	5. A Guard and a Hobbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everybody!  
> I finished another paper so I posted another chapter. This one, unfortunately, does not have a lot of plot but it does explain some of the history and background that is going to be touched upon or needed in later chapters. In this one, we see a lot of cannon timeline shift but we're gonna pretend it doesn't matter, this is an AU after all.
> 
> Warnings:  
> -mentions of starvation (character is down on luck and hasn't had regular access to food for a while)
> 
> As always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me. I have exams to finish.  
> -Lost

There was something about the Shire Dwalin found unsettling. He wasn’t sure if it was the realization that the Halflings burrowed into soil instead of stone, or if it was the sheer amount of green, but the Shire was off putting. Now, typically when there was something that unsettled him to this degree, he whacked it with Grasper or Keeper and went about his merry way.

He wasn’t about to do that in a place that apparently raised pickpockets and thieves according to Tharkun.

Dwalin wasn’t stupid, nor was he an idiot. And while Balin might have gotten more of their father's brains then their mother's brawn like Dwalin did, it wasn’t as if Dwalin hadn’t learned his letters alongside his brother. It didn’t come up often, but Dwalin was raised a noble too, right alongside the Durin heirs.

His craft might have been revealed as battlecrafting, but by no means was he stupid in the ways of politics or people. He couldn’t afford to be, not when he was one of the Captain of the Guard back in Ered Luin. Not when he, like Thorin had to beg at markets of Men for jobs he could have done as a babe.

Dwalin wasn’t stupid, he just pretended to be.

He knew he shouldn’t judge the Shire with the mindset of a dwarf. He knew that this was a different culture then he was used to altogether, (the sons of Fundin weren’t raised as diplomats for nothing) but the Shire simply look wrong. All hills and vaulted fields.

There were roads that were little more than dirt and rock thrown away from what looked to be perfect little rows of crop Dwalin could name. Every curve made his neck prickle and every step made him itch to place a hand on Keeper. The Shire was worse than the open roads. At least there Dwalin knew to watch for bandits and slavers. Arrogant and desperate curs who thought to make their fortune off the downfall of others.

Here, anything could be hidden away behind a hill or eyeing him behind those strict lines of hedges. Dwalin wasn’t one of the longest lasting guards in the lower levels of Ered Luin just because he was the best at fighting. While that did help, Dwalin had lasted because he was the best at thinking _ahead._

Dwalin didn’t stand for sloppy guard work. Anyone could swing an axe or lynch a man. It took more to settle disputes before they reached the overburdened courts. It took brains to reclaim stolen property, track down missing dwarrow, or even know when to put aside petty grudges and history to give fair justice. In any other settlement, the dwarrow Dwalin dealt with on a day to day basis simply fell under the blade of the guards in order to get things done simply and quickly.

But, personally Dwalin thought there weren’t enough dwarrow left for Dwalin to let good dwarrow die because the stomachs of pebbles rumbled with hunger and dams' cheeks grew gaunt in effort to stretch reserves even further.

Dwalin had never found fault with the growling of empty stomachs and he wasn’t about to now.

Shaking his head to clear the heavy thoughts, Dwalin cast an appraising eye on the road before him. Night hadn’t yet fallen, and even for the eyes of men, there was enough light to allow pebbles and homemakers to continue chores outside.

The unsettling thing about the scene was that as far as Dwalin could tell, there had been people labouring to finish their chores up until the very moment Dwalin had turned to look. To Dwalin's left was a basket of wet clothes under a half full clothesline. To his right, was what looked to be a scattered game of sticks.

If the hobbits had just scrambled for hiding spots at the sound of him clomping along the road, Dwalin would be hearing boots hitting the floor and furious whispers between parent and pebble. In his experience, even when circumstances and situations fell out of control faster than Dwalin could yell ‘down,’ curious pebbles would be poking their heads through the curtains. But Dwalin didn’t hear a thing.

There was no sound. No movement. No curious pebbles leaning around hedgerow or curtain to stare at the oddity standing in the middle of the path.

If Dwalin didn’t know better, he would have thought the Shire to be like the town of Man he had been hired to accompany a group of merchants to, a few years back. The whole village had appeared to have just up and left. Clothes had been left to dry, fluttering in the wind, wood had been scattered across yards, and paddocks had been left wide open.

Later, they had found bodies wrapped in sheets in the fields, too many for individual graves to be dug by survivors. It hadn't been hard to recognize the signs of a rough winter mixed with a spring sickness. Dwalin had been the one to gather up the firewood and build the pyres. It wasn’t a good burial of stone and honour, but he didn’t dare let the disease from the bodies run into the underground reservoirs. Dwalin had grown up in a mountain, he knew what happened when contaminated water hit a population.

It was only the luck that illnesses did not easily pass between the races of Man and Dwarrow that kept the caravan alive. And it was the experience of hard years long past that had kept Dwalin from refilling his canteen with the snowmelt or runoff.

The caravan had pushed onto the next village, their wares sold at lower prices due to the need to make something from the whole doomed venture. That whole year had been awful. More guard work with less pay. Slavers and bandits roaming the countryside and low yield that autumn. Dwalin had gone to bed hungry more often then not that year.

Dwalin chewed on the inside of his cheek. In Thorin’s summons, he had relayed that Tharkun had mentioned it was unlikely they'd see anyone aside from the hobbit they had hired. From the way Balin and his recently graduated apprentice Ori (Balin had been ecstatic in the missive Dwalin had received. His apprentice, his handpicked and highly skilled apprentice from the lower levels of Ered Luin had managed to pass his exam on his first try. It was more then enough reason to celebrate these days) had simply nodded along.

Dwalin had taken that silent agreement to mean that the few rumours Balin had managed to sus out from the merchants and smiths who had ventured to find work in Bree or around the Shire had confirmed Tharkun 's message.

Dwalin hadn’t liked the situation. No one knew anything about Halflings aside from an errant wizard and the Men in Bree who had apparently looked flabbergasted anyone didn’t know about the Halflings. (That message on its own had made Dwalin gaff. It wasn’t often Balin’s beard got tweaked by anyone. Mahal’s forge, lately only Dis had been able to stand head to head with Balin and make the old man grumble.)

Still, if it weren’t for reports from his own guards that there had been a halfling (lass? No one was sure if the halfling was male or female) running through the wood near Ered Luin screaming about ‘fricken goblins’ a few decades back, Dwalin probably would have thought them largely to be a myth. Or to at least be a small community, nothing like the population of Ered Luin which was already small enough.

Considering Dwalin had led a team out at the moment the word ‘goblin' had passed the young guard's lips and he had seen the tail end of what had to be a mix between a Man and an elf take down a goblin with little more than a tree branch, Dwalin was convinced of the realness of halflings first hand. The halfling hadn’t been inclined to stick around long enough for Dwalin to get a word in edgewise and he had never found the halfling's trail either.

If their burglar had anything near the level of stealth like that halfling, Dwalin was both inclined to hand them the contract himself and tie bells to the damn thing. He already had enough jump scares between quiet little Ori, the locksmith Nori, and the two young princes in the past week to make up for the last two decades he had spent on the road between guard rotations. Dwalin was half a mind to get all five of them bells the moment they stepped into Bree.

Forcing himself to slow his suddenly brisk pace, Dwalin began to count the fence posts. The wizard had mentioned something about knowing the place when he saw it and the longer Dwalin paced through the Shire the more he wanted to wet Keeper with wizard blood.

Although, pausing in the middle of the path, Dwalin had to admit the wizard probably had a point about recognizing the place on sight. Who else other than a prized burglar would have the Khuzdul rune for ‘thief for hire’ burned into the post of their mailbox?

Looking into the front yard, Dwalin was only further convinced of the _wrongness_ in the Shire. There was no hitching post and no place to pitch tent. Instead, there was a sprawling garden that rivaled and outstripped even the most talented dwarf in the lower levels of Ered Luin.

Dwarrow primarily ate meat, while green food was considered good for only grains, herbs, spices, and filler. Dwalin wasn’t so ignorant as to think perfectly good food should be turned down, mind you, but there was something to be said that it was a truly desperate dwarf to voluntarily partake in a meal devoid of meat. Dwalin had turned a blind eye to enough poachers and dragged home enough young thieving pebbles to know what some of the fruit and vegetables were in sections of the hobbit's garden.

In the green valleys of the Shire, Dwalin didn’t know if the garden was a mark of wealth or a mark of empty pockets and just as empty stomachs. Since the wizard had promised a dinner, Dwalin was hoping for at least a somewhat financially stable hobbit. He knew what thirteen near starving dwarrow ate like after all.

Aside from the gardens, there was the fact the house was set into the hill. Once again, Dwalin had to remind himself these people were not dwarf, but when the halflings sought to tunnel underground under soft dirt hills instead of safe mountain rock, he had to shake his head. This whole land was practically waiting for someone to ride through and raze it to the ground.

Except, little Ori had said that according to the legends of Men, the Halflings had been settled in the Shire for longer than Ered Luin had been colonized. For such a peaceful people to have settled such a large area, and to remain something akin to a myth to all but their closest neighbors while never having been to war…

Dwalin was a simple guard. (Never mind that the blood of kings ran through his veins and his father had been a royal advisor. Those days were long past.) And even as a simple guard, he knew things didn’t add up.

It could have been that the Halflings had powerful friends in the tree-shaggers or even the full council of wizards. (For some reason, Dwalin highly doubted that last one, if only because of the smirk that had stolen across the wizard's face.) It was beginning to look more likely that the Halfings simply hid when trouble came knocking at their borders.

But if trouble did not know where to find them in the first place…

Dwalin might have been a battlecrafter but he could appreciate the thought of minimizing death due to battle and war. Balin had mentioned there seemed to be no standing army in the Shire, as long as one did not include the Rangers that patrolled the green fields. No army, no clearly defined borders, and as far as the rest of the world was aware, the Shire was a myth hidden in the grass.

Secrecy seemed to be the best policy.

Grudgingly, he had to admit the Halflings seemed to hide themselves and their culture better than the open secret that was Khuzdul.

Opening the gate, Dwalin let himself wander up to the front door. He had led the boys to the Shire, left them a while back under what had to be the biggest tree outside of Greenwood Dwalin had ever seen. Thorin would never forgive him for letting his sister-sons fall into a Halfling trap. That wasn’t to mention the pain Dis would make him suffer if he brought back her boys in worse shape than they had left her tender mercies.

The thought of Dis' tear-filled scowl as she stood in the doorway and watched them leave would haunt Dwalin. Admittedly, it would haunt him for what might be a very short amount of time. Dwalin remembered the dragon fire, thank you very much. He knew their chances far better than some wizard. He also knew that if they stayed in Ered Luin it would be a drawn-out death. At least with dragon fire, it might be quick. Mahal being merciful might not make him die slowly of smoke in the lungs. Dwalin also remembered having to bring word of Vili's death to a younger and brighter Dis. The frozen expression from the _incident_ was the same as the moment Kili and Fili had rounded the corner, leaving Dwalin to turn around and see Dis shaking quietly in the doorway.

The boys didn’t know.

Dwalin would have preferred Dis' shouts echoing across the mountain then to watch her break into pieces in the middle of the doorway of an empty house.

He could only thank Mahal, Thorin hadn’t been there to see Dis shatter.

The rest of the company was scattered. They all agreed to meet here in the Shire and with the boys in a recognizable location, Dwalin had no doubt even Thorin Direction-challenged would be able to find this burrow. If he couldn’t, the boy's shouting would certainly draw him in. Balin had mentioned something about keeping the two pups under control one way or another.

Raising a hand to knock, Dwalin did his best not to look like the guard he truly was. People seemed to have a sixth sense about the loom of a guard and Dwalin certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with the local Watch either.

“I hope that is you, Lobelia. I've almost finished the final draft of the contract if you would like to take a gander at it.” Came ringing out from inside the burrow before Dwalin could manage to knock once. Frozen, Dwalin could only stare as his hand was left to pound on thin air as the door opened.

“You are not cousin Lobelia.”

Dwalin blinked and for the first time in his life (aside from the unfortunate dealing with pebbles) looked down at a speaker. The first thing he saw was unruly curls, the likes of which he had only ever seen on Men, then there was the soft velvet vest, and the truly large hairy feet.

The Halfling looked up at him and Dwalin watched as the halfling went from concern, to a look of unfailing politeness. It was an expression Dwalin had watched his father wear and his brother struggle to master for years. Dispute himself, Dwalin was impressed.

The Halfling nodded and sighed. “If you are here for an amended contract, I'm afraid there has been a family emergency that required my urgent attention. You might wish to try my nephew Drogo down the lane. He is just as good for these sorts of things.” The Halfling swept a hand up to point to Dwalin's right. “He lives four smials down. White door. Can’t miss it. Although, he would probably prefer you to appear at a more decent time tomorrow, but we Baggins also understand a time sensitive situation. Just tell him Bilbo sent you and he should be able to take you in right away.”

For a moment, Dwalin could only blink. He was used to dealing with thieves. Used to dealing with people who thought they could swindle their way out of any situation, but it had been decades, probably not since Kili had been going through his streaking phase, that Dwalin had not been recognized for what, if not who, he was on sight. After the incident with the public fountain, the courier, and a naked pebble of a Kili, it was hard not to be recognized in Ered Luin.

“Is this not the home of a Burglar?” Dwalin wondered aloud, half deliberating the wisdom of marching back out to the street and re-reading the fence post just in case. To be fair, if the top section of the rune was slanted ever more slightly to the right, the whole meaning would change.

(Ha! Take that Balin! Dwalin had learned his letters just as well as the next pebble.)

The Halfling squinted and followed Dwalin's look back to his garden gate with a groan. “Is _that_ what my fence post now says? I told Hamfast he wouldn’t be able to get the mark out. Dratted wizard. I suppose I'll just have to replace the whole post now.”

Dwalin blinked again. “I'm sorry?”

He didn’t mean the statement to come out as a question, and certainly, he hadn’t meant to apologize but Dwalin knew that look. Knew what the frazzled hair (minus the braids. How was Dwalin to know anything about this Halfling? Was it male, female? Old? Young? Master? Apprentice?) The wild-eyed look, the bitten lips, ink stained fingers, the pipe that kept being rubbed against the Halfling’s thigh. Something had happened. Something bad. Something more than a ‘family emergency' if Dwalin had any say.

“I'm sure you are.” The Halfling grumped, his head shaking slightly. “I suppose you are part of Gandalf's adventure then? I was led to believe there would be more of you, although not how many exactly.”

There weren’t many who could make Dwalin feel like an errant pebble, but this halfling managed it. “Yes. Dwalin, son of…” The Halfing's hand shot out and landed over his mouth, forcing Dwalin into a choking halt.

“I do believe that is enough Master Dwalin. A word of advice? Words have power and while I have come to understand a dwarven greeting typically ends with ‘at your service,’ those are dangerous words here. Never give a hobbit more then you are willing to lose.” The halfling said as he smiled pleasantly and removed his fingers from Dwalin's mouth.

Dwalin fought the urge to turn on his heel and abandon this whole mess. Every guard knew that there were things that couldn’t always be explained or put into the official report. Sometimes you could manage to convince yourself that what you had just seen was exhaustion talking, bur that couldn’t explain away everything.

“Noted.” Dwalin grunted, still slightly unsettled. “Thirteen dwarrow. Quest to reclaim homeland. Wizard promised food, bed, and burglar.” Thankfully Dwalin was already a man of few words, so it wasn’t that difficult to watch what he was saying. Besides, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t bit out more then one report condensed into a single sentence.

From the curl of the Halfling's smile, the odd creature knew what Dwalin was attempting to do. “Bilbo Baggins.” Master Baggins said with another shake of his head, finally stepping aside and beckoning Dwalin into the burrow. “Never place yourself in another's debt. Never offer what is not yours to give or what you cannot afford to lose. Do not enter contract without being able to guarantee the end result. And never,” Master Baggins shot him a look, “give a hobbit your true name.”

There was a chill running down Dwalin's spine and it was with no little amount of apprehension that he slowly took off Grasper and Keeper, laying them in the empty weapon rack beside the door. For now, he was going to ignore the appearance of an empty weapon rack and an apparently unarmed halfling. Kili, strike that, little Ori could probably have managed to push Master Baggins over with one little poke, but Dwalin knew better then to think anyone was ever truly unarmed.

Valiantly ignoring the boxes littering the hall, Dwalin followed after Master Baggins, desperately trying to gather as much information as possible before he shoved the whole problem into Balin's capable hands. Oh, Dwalin had no doubt Master Baggins was not a physical threat to Dwalin at least, but like the rest of the Shire, there was something _off_ about Master Baggins. At least the lad was attempting to warn him of any potential cultural faux pas. For that he probably owed the lad, but he knew better then to push his luck.

“Met many dwarrow?” Dwalin couldn’t help but ask as they rounded another corner.

Master Baggins lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not many wander this far into the Shire. The few I've met say it’s the lack of stone under the earth that threw them for a loop. Most of the time I communicate with clients through letter. If that doesn’t work, I have cousins who are able to ferry messages and negotiate in my stead.”

Dwalin blinked and gave the wooden floor an appraising look. Aye, the lack of stone might explain a few things. Mahal knew Thorin didn’t operate or navigate well without some form of stone beneath his feet. Even shale or slag would do! Still, something else about this whole venture seemed off.

“You are not a burglar?” Dwalin tried again, hoping this was a situation similar to the Locksmith who pretended he didn’t have sticky fingers and elf ears.

Master Baggins paused, his eyebrows steadily climbing higher as Dwalin stayed silent. “Ah. I see Gandalf has been telling stories.” Master Baggins eventually murmured, shaking his head slightly. “No. I have not stolen a thing in my life, lest you count a mushroom or two from Farmer Maggot's fields as a faunt.”

Whatever hope Dwalin had been harbouring shriveled up and died at Master Baggins’ apologetic grin.

“There's food through there and later there will be a place to sleep. Some of your group may have to bunk together but I'm sure you can figure that out when your people arrive. Now, usually I'd stay and entertain, but you caught me at a rather bad time. Let me finish this last amendment and I'll be out with you in a moment.”

Dwalin would have been affronted if it weren’t for the fact Master Baggins had answered the door expecting somebody else. Aside from that, he had laid out as much information as possible from the moment he had seen Dwalin. Dwalin could appreciate honesty even if it wasn’t easy to come by in his line of work.

Giving the Halfling a short bow, Dwalin turned on his heel and followed his nose. He had been smelling bread and spice since the moment he had left the boys and he had been on the road long enough anything more then hard bread and jerky sounded like a feast.

Half drunk on the thought of warm food and a good meal, it took Dwalin a moment to understand what he was looking at when he stepped into what had to be the dinning room of the burrow. Shaking his head and closing his eyes, Dwalin tried to pretend that maybe what he had seen was false. That his stomach was not overriding his eyes and making him see visions of feasts.

But a feast in the dining room there was. Breads were scattered between glazed birds and mouth-watering roasts; stews and broths lay upon one end of the table beside a stack of plates and bowls. What appeared to be a cask of mead was set on a low shelf, a half dozen cups stacked beside it and a kettle pushed against the wall with tea cups hung below it.

“Mahal strike me with a hammer.” Dwalin breathed, sinking into one of the chairs that lined the room.

Balin had mentioned hearing something about halfling hospitality, but Dwalin hadn’t put much stock into it. He was a dwarf, a dwarf in exile to be exact. Men wanted little to do with dwarrow and Dwalin’s own kin had done little to help the exiles over the past century and a bit. Food was always overpriced, building materials were subpar, and compassion had often been marred by pity or hatred.

Dwalin wasn’t the dwarf that had escaped the flames. Food had always been difficult to find and if Fundin could see him now, his father would weep. Dwarrow had existed on three meals a day for generations. These days, Dwalin was lucky to see two.

To his shame, Dwalin wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat the rich cakes and spreads that dotted the table. The soups and stews were probably all he could handle, with maybe a few bites of other delicacies scattered across the tabletop.

With shaking hands, Dwalin picked up a bowl, ladled himself a half scoop of stew, and sliced himself a small bit of the bread, before returning to the chair he had sunk into earlier. Even if the halfling decided not to come with them, Dwalin would at least be as quiet and accommodating of a guest as he could be while under Master Baggins’ roof. The halfling had shown him more kindness and compassion then his own kin had in the past century.

Dwalin would see that rewarded if he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, this fic has over 600 hits and almost 100 kudos!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has continued to read, comment, kudos, or even just glance over the fic! I hope you guys continue having fun with it.


	6. Everything Always Seems to Happen at Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone!  
> I have wonderful news. I finished my semester today! Yay! Three cheers! The other good news is that I have a new chapter for you all.  
> For those of you who are new to this work, the tags have been updated and I have decided to do a Thorin/Bilbo work. However, as with most of my works, the relationship will be ace. The relationship will not be the focus of this fic and get ready for a very slow burn. If this is a problem, abandon ship now. From what I can tell, however, most of this is going to be very gen so that should be fun.  
> This is also one of my longest chapters so thats also good news,  
> And, WE'VE PASSED 100 KUDOS!!!!!  
> As always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.

There was a dwarf in Bilbo’s dining room and apparently there were twelve more on the way. Leaning against the wall of his study with white knuckled fingers clenching onto his pipe, Bilbo had to wonder how everything had just seemed to happen all at once.

Otho. Lobelia. Gandalf’s visit. Grandfather’s lies coming to the fore. And of all things, a small company of dwarrow was now supposed to be invading his home.

Thank Yavanna Bilbo had been brought up by Belladonna and was used to a semblance of chaos, or he would have been utterly overwhelmed. As it was, Bilbo was fighting the urge to poke his head out of the doorway and verify Master Dwalin was still standing in his smial and was not, in fact, some wild hallucination brought on by stress.

Yavanna knew Bilbo had enough shocks throughout the day.

Sinking down into his smoking chair, Bilbo fought the urge to rub his temples. He hadn’t lied to Master Dwalin. Bilbo did not deal with dwarrow often. Typically, Bilbo dealt with Men. Foolish Men who thought swindling their clients was a reasonable response to a higher pay out than expected. Dwarrow, in Bilbo's experience, had the right idea with guilds and scribes. Most Dwarrow kept their contracts and dealings in house as far as Bilbo could tell. As such, reaching out to deal with a Baggins rarely happened unless a Man wanted a guarantee in their dealings. There were pockets of other circumstances and situations that drove dwarrow to make contract in the Shire, but those were rare and few enough to make dwarrow an odd occurrence in the Shire without a Man accompanying them.

And of those few circumstances that did occur, Bilbo was too far away from the border of the Shire to be idlely contacted. Bilbo had only ever been referred for an amendment and that had been soon after he took up the Mastership of Underhill and The Hill.

As such, it was considered a miracle Bungo managed not one, but two contracts with a dwarf a few years before Bilbo was born. The negotiations that came out of those drafts had practically written the primer for Bilbo's generation on how to interact and make contract with Dwarrow. Bilbo himself had grown up reading copies of the two apprenticeship contracts, memorizing the clauses and making notes alongside Bungo on cultural differences between Yavanna and Mahal's children.

However, Bilbo had never expected to put Bungo’s lessons into application face to face with a dwarf, let alone twelve more in one evening.

Still, it was too late to back out now.

Putting his head in his hands, Bilbo groaned. In retrospect, maybe he should have taken up Bell Gamnee's offer of a fresh mince pie when she has stopped in that afternoon. Bilbo had cooked for the appetites of Men. Dwarrow were so much smaller than men and much closer to Hobbits, it wasn’t likely they ate any less then the customary seven meals a day. Bilbo hadn’t thought to cook for that type of bottomless pit.

Gandalf was going to shame him as a host!

Bilbo's mother would have been disappointed in Bilbo's lack of forethought.

A knock sounded from the front door, drawing Bilbo from his fretting. Grabbing the contract off his desk just in case Lobelia had decided to come back instead of staying at Tookbrough, Bilbo practically ran to the front door. It could have been anything on his front stoop; from twelve dwarrow to a late-night visit from the Bounders. With how Bilbo's day had been going, he didn’t expect anything less.

So really, opening the door to see what appeared to be a beaming white beard twisting the ears of one wall of blond and another cloak bristling with arrows, should not have been surprising. Honestly, Bilbo was used the Gamnee children bursting through his door as furious mud monsters, waving about sticks and piercing screams. The appearance of two dwarrow being treated like naughty faunts, however, threw him for a loop.

Bilbo shut the door.

He would have preferred the Bounders.

“Master Dwalin.” Bilbo called as he backed away from the door. “I believe a part of your party is here.”

Oh, he was being a terrible host, but that sight had shaken him. It wasn’t the whiteness of the older dwarf's beard, or even the playful smiles of the two faunts. No, it was the arrows.

Grandfather and Prim probably hadn’t meant to stir up unpleasant memories, what with the letters and accusations flying around his kitchen hours ago, but they had. It wasn’t spoken about often in the Shire, the Fell Winter when the Brandywine froze. But, there was no denying the wounds still floated about the Shire, scabbed over and cracking every turn of the season.

The Fell Winter, in a word, had been _cold._ Too cold for little faunts too young to maintain body heat and old hobbits unable to retain either the heat or the energy needed to survive the bone deep chill. The fall frost had destroyed the late crop and utterly killed the winter wheat. Without the realization of the need to ration, stores had run low quickly, and then the wolves came.

Spring had brought no relief either, after the snow had melted. Between organizing burial after burial and finding out who had survived the winter, no one had thought to check the fields until after what should have been the first week of seeing shoots in every garden from Hobbiton to Michel Delving.

For the first in Shire memory, there hadn’t been enough food to go around. Not even the supplies the Rangers had brought to sustain themselves had helped. When the numbers had been complied, it had been found that more hobbits had died that spring and summer then the whole winter.

Yet, Bilbo remembered better than most when the Rangers had finally managed to cut their way into the Shire. He remembered sitting in the snow at the base of the party tree, eyes wide as a wolf with an arrow in its muzzle, bled out in the snowbank before him. Bilbo had never managed to thank whoever had made the shot that saved his life. But, as one of the few Took boys near the center of Hobbiton and mostly uninjured but for a wrenched shoulder, a half dozen stiches in his scalp, and a long gash on right foot, Bilbo had spent the rest of the winter confined to a bed, severely malnourished but able to work, his hands busy making arrow after arrow.

Still, to this day Bilbo found himself picking up rocks on his meandering trip back from the markets, and settling into the back of Bag End to shape a few fluted points and arrow heads for whenever the Rangers came through. It wasn’t dwarven steel but it was better than nothing and Bilbo hadn’t been turned away yet.

He shouldn’t have reacted that way to the archer, but with Prim's accusations against their grandfather floating about in his head, all Bilbo could think of was the burn of wolf eyes and blood against the snow. All he could think of was the blisters on his hands from digging into the ground, begging to be able to get below the frost line to help with the burials. The Rangers hadn’t been fast enough to save them all and Bilbo still bore the scars.

The faunt the older dwarrow held by the ear could have been a Ranger if not for being hobbit sized.

By the grace of Yavanna’s garden, Bilbo shouldn’t have been acting like a yellowbellied faunt at the sight of a pintsized archer.

“Is there a problem Master Baggins?”

Bilbo looked up to see Master Dwalin standing quietly at the end of the hall, boots in hand. Bilbo hadn’t even seen the dwarf take off his boots earlier. Flustered, he could do little as the dwarf slowly nodded his head at Bilbo’s continued silence and jammed his boots onto his feet. Quickly Master Dwalin grabbed at his previously hung axes and nodded for Bilbo to take a step back.

A bolt of shame danced across Bilbk's skin. “Oh no.” Bilbo denied quickly, his hands fluttering about to make the dwarf stand down. “I believe a few of your companions and I gave each other a bit of a scare. I was still expecting my cousin you see and…”

Master Dwalin shuffled in place. “Are you sure Master Baggins?” He asked, giving the door a suspicious glance. “Whoever it is, hasn’t knocked since.”

Bilbo blinked. “Ah well, yes. You see, I…”

Finally, Bilbo shook his head and opened his door, ignoring the way Master Dwalin tensed. Honestly, it wasn’t as if there was a wolf slobbering at his door. This was the Shire in spring. How much trouble could there be at on smial door on Bagshot Row?

Bilbo gave his biggest smile to the dwarrow on his doorstep, the one he reserved for the truly difficult clients. “Sorry about that.” He beamed, his cheeks hurting from the movement, “I mistook you for someone else. I do hope you are here to join Master Dwalin for the evening?”

The scene on Bilbo's front step paused, and for a moment, Bilbo wasn’t sure who was more surprised. The three dwarrow, two of which were kneeling and looking very much like the Gamnee children when being lectured by both Bell and Hamfast. The older dwarf who was doing the lecturing, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks ruddy. Or Master Dwalin, who had promptly placed his axes back on the weapon rack and slid past Bilbo.

“You made it!” Dwalin exclaimed, grabbing the older man's head in his hands and head-butting him with a resounding _crack._

Bilbo winced in sympathy at the sound. Yet, the older dwarf simply smiled and grabbed Master Dwalin in a bone crushing hug. “It’s been too long. Too long.”

The two kneeling faunts shared a shame faced look of panic. “We're sorry Balin.” The blond remarked.

The archer cut across the other faunt, his hands held up as Master Dwalin turned to pin them with a glare. “Yeah. We only meant to have a bit of fun.”

The tension in Bilbo's spine slunk away. Boys. They were just boys. It was an unfortunate circumstance the younger faunt could have passed for a ranger, but circumstance all the same. Straightening his spine, Bilbo pushed his door open wider. “Come in. I do apologize again for the confusion. It has been a rather hectic day and I truly wasn’t expecting thirteen dwarrow.”

That remark made Master Balin frown and exchange a long look with Master Dwalin, before he gave a short, but polite bow. “I see there has been some confusion on our end. Are you not…”

Bolbo hastily cut him off with an errant wave. “A Burglar? No. No. As I told Master Dwalin, I have never stolen a thing in my life, other than a few years of good cheer and contentment.”

Master Balin's lips twitched but before he could say anything to that remark, Bilbo rounded on the two faunts who had since scrambled up to their feet. “Now, what were you two doing for a bit of ‘fun'?”

As he sternly waved his pipe at the two faunts, Bilbo had the most alarming thought that he had become his father. That wasn’t to say he didn’t admire his father, but it was strange to realize he had mimicked Bunho's mannerisms perfectly in that action. His mother would be in stitches if she had seen him.

The two faunts mouths clicked shut faster then you could say ‘party-tree' and gave him a smile so sunny that Bilbo could have cooked and egg without difficulty. “Nothing Mr. Baggins. Nothing at all.”

Bilbo hummed and nodded, inwardly grinning when the two faunts shared a relieved glance. “Alright then. I hope you two won’t mind taking off your boots and placing them there,” Bilbo pointed to the mat Belladonna had commissioned for such a purpose before waving to the weapon rack. “And please place your armory there. If you leave anything on you, I only ask you don’t pull weapons at the table. I like my dining room in one piece. Master Dwalin has been informed of the rules of this smial. He can guide you to the dining room as well.”

Bilbo would have felt awful about the way the he was treating his guests it weren’t for the squeak of his garden gate that had him hastily gesturing to Dwalin to take the boys inside and away from whatever was about to storm his smial. Inwardly, Bilbo was wailing at the way the two faunts slunk by him. He hadn’t even caught their names yet and good gracious, what must Master Balin be thinking of Bilbo's lacking manners. Besides they were faunts, they shouldn’t have been scared of him at all!

Thankfully, Dwalin must have shot the three dwarrow a look, because the boys were leaning against his wall to tug off their heavy boots, even as Balin hefted what looked to be a wicked looking dagger onto the rack.

“Bilbo! Bilbo, I think you had better put on some tea!”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bilbo watched the two faunts exchange a look and peer over Dwalin's shoulder as the dwarf grabbed at his axes again. Bilbo fought the urge to roll his eyes even as he squinted into the dusk, giving the dwarrow an errant flick of the hand to send them on their way. While his hearing was excellent, there were far too many cousins who might address him with such familiarity and fake cheer when skipping up his path, for Bilbo to place a name to the voice.

To be fair, typically Bilbo only placed names to a voice if it was someone he rather didn’t want to speak to. Lobeila was one such unfortunate figure. Bilbo always knew when she was inhaling to lash him with her tongue.

Otho had been another.

Still, it was far too late for tea time and no one respectable would come for dinner without an invitation, so who could…

“Sorry to be back so soon Bilbo, but I rather thought it to be a bad idea for me to be under the same roof as grandfather tonight and well, I met Mrs. Sackville-Baggins on the road you see…”

Ah, that explained it. A Brandybuck.

Prim stepped into the light emitting from the door, one hand clasped firmly onto what looked to be her mother's traveling bag, and the other was firmly tucked into the crook of Lobelia's elbow. For the moment, Bilbo decided to ignore the flush of Took anger of Prim's cheeks and instead took in the sight of his normally fashion-conscious cousin-in-law.

Compared to her usual standards, Lobelia looked a fright. Her hair was pulled into a messy tail, her normally impeccable skirts were twisted and wrinkled, and her lace parasol had been replaced with a heavy-duty umbrella. That wasn’t to mention the redness of her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks, and the exhaustion that had worked into every bone in her body.

“Yes,” Bilbo murmured as he reached out to take both the bag and Lobelia, “I do believe you had better come in.”

Prim's grip tightened on the bag, so in the end, Bilbo only guided Lobelia through the door. Somehow, he managed to usher them into the study without disturbing the small party that was beginning to settle in his dining room.

As Bilbo latched the door of his study behind him, something heavy sank to the bottom of Bilbo's stomach. He could only hope it wasn’t his ability to speak civilly about a dead man. Rolling his eyes up the ceiling, Bilbo begged the Valar for patience as he turned and ushered the two women to find a seat. In the end, Lobelia ended up half collapsed in his smoking chair while Prim had perched herself on the desk. Bilbo himself had sunk onto a low stool, half wondering if this meeting was going to be worse then the scenarios, he had been imagining all afternoon.

“Grandfather returned home in a snit.” Prim eventually broke the silence, her fingers twisting together as she looked at something over Bilbo's shoulder.

Bilbo grimaced, not needing her to say another word. The Took anger was legendary after all and Bilbo had it running through his veins just as much as any other Took boy. He could guess where this was going without having Prim say another word.

“And he refused to see you.” Bilbo breathed, his gaze dropping as he rubbed at his temple.

Lobelia sniffed, the sound catching in her throat oddly. “I can’t go back Bilbo. I can’t.”

“Oh Lobelia.” Prim cried out. “You don’t have to. Bilbo can put you up for the night, can’t you Bilbo?”

It was odd to see the usual spitfire and acidic tongued Lobelia so distraught. Lobelia was supposed to be bickering with him, stealing his spoons and arguing over how the family ought to be run. It was the dance they had played for over ten years and Bilbo was thrown they weren’t doing it now.

“Otho has been declared a faithbreaker.” Bilbo said, his hands reaching down to pull out the contract he had out together for Lobelia. “If he isn’t dead already, his body will be found upon the morn.”

Lobelia’s gaze flicked to Bilbo. “Good.”

Bilbo almost quirked a smile. There was the Lobelia he knew. The one quick to anger and slow to forgive. He had missed her these past few days. “I made this. It’s a contract,” Bilbo pretended not to see her flinch at the word, “that will cover the stipend for both you and the child.”

Some of the tension in Lobelia's shoulders eased and Bilbo could only be grateful he could do this much. “It will cover you for the rest of your natural life. Should you die before the child is of age, the child will be taken in by two guardians, one Baggins to help with the _other_ and one of your choosing to help verify this incident will never happen to you and yours again. The child shall also receive a small amount to help offset any additional costs to the household.”

Lobelia looked ready to cry but Bilbo ploughed forward. This was _important_. “It has as much leeway as I could manage. It’s nothing like Otho's contracts. You've seen my works before. And, Lobelia, this isn't your fault.”

Lobelia froze.

Bilbo kept talking. “This isn't your fault. You will always have a roof over your head, clothing on your back, food in the pantry, and space for your faunt to grow and flourish.”

“Mama said I should have read the contract more carefully.” Lobelia whispered, leaning forward to press shaking hands against her mouth. Something in Bilbo _twisted_ at the sight. This was Lobelia. Rough, outspoken, startlingly Lobelia. Bilbo had never liked her and there was nothing she could say that would make him _pity_ her.

(Belladonna had always been quite harsh about receiving pity. The moment Bungo had died, Belladonna had gone straight into mourning and refused to hear anything from the Baggins Clan about how Bilbo ought to be brought up. Pity, Belladonna has always said, was something that could warp you if you weren’t careful. Pity made things worse and no one ever tried to help the _pitiful._ )

(Besides, Bilbo might have been near adulthood when his mother passed, but he remembered what it as like to grow with out a father. He remembered how much his mother tried to hide her struggles. Much like his mother Bilbo had hated the pitying looks. So no, Bolbo couldn’t _pity_ Lobelia. But he could _empathize_ with her.)

Lobelia was still hunched over her knees, her hands shaking and her cheeks paler than Grandmother's prized cotton thread. Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was better or worse when Lobelia looked up to catch his eye. “Papa said I couldn’t go back to their roof while I carried _his_ babe.”

For a split second, Bilbo saw red. How dare they? How did one look at Lobelia and say that she should have known better? This was the Shire, for Yavanna's sake, things like this just didn’t happen here. These were the scenarios of Big Folk, not of Hobbits.

Shuffling forward, Bilbo knelt before Lobelia and slowly reached up to pull his hands into hers, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she needed to. Bilbo knew better then to assume the hand of a Baggjns would be accepted this soon after her _incident._ But, Lobelia proved him wrong and it showed in the way she gripped his hands and clenched her jaw tighter.

It made sense for Lobelia to be distrustful, Bilbo only wished she didn’t have to be. “This is not your fault.”

Lobelia's mouth twisted. “I signed the contract. Twice.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Your parents read the first contract and deemed it agreeable. I filed the contract and said not a thing. Otho penned the second contract and broke faith.” lobelia's grip on his fingers became as painful as iron. “Let the blame lie with those who deserve it Lobelia. And trust me when I say, you, are certainly not one of them.”

There was a silence in the study Bilbo didn’t know how to interpret. It wasn’t thick and heavy, nor was it thin and jagged. The silence simply was.

Lobelia ducked her head. “Can I stay?”

“Of course.” Bilbo whispered as he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Of course, you can stay.”

Lobelia nodded jerkily, her head dipping down a little further until somehow it seemed she had twisted up into the chair, her arms wrapped around her legs while still holding onto Bilbo. “Do I have to sign anything right now?”

This, this right here was what Bilbo hated. Contract. Everything in the Shire was run by contract. He shouldn’t have to rely on contract to put Lobelia up for the night, nor should she feel pressured to ask what the catch of a good deed might be.

“No.” Bilbo eventually managed to grit out without letting his ire show. “You don’t have to sign anything with me Lobelia. The money will always be yours and I will always have a room for you and the babe. We are family after all.”

Lobrlia shuddered and fearing more tears, Bilbo desperately scrambled for something else to say. “Just, don’t, you know. Steal my spoons?”

Lobelia let out one great snort before she was throwing herself forward and sobbing into his shoulder. Bilbo caught her awkwardly, his eyes wide as one of his least favourite people used him as a drying rag. “There, there Lobelia. It will be alright.” He said as he patted her in the back, desperately trying to catch Prim's eye at the same time.

Lobelia only sobbed harder.

Perched up on his desk, Prim (the great big brat), gave a wet sounding chuckle. “I hope that wasn't your favourite vest.”

Bilbo stuck his tongue out at the tween like the mature middle-aged hobbit he was.

Yavanna only knew how long later, Lobelia's grip slackened on Bilbo's shoulders and her sobs slowed into even deep breaths. Prim must have been waiting for the moment, because the young woman was already pulling Lobelia up her feet while whispering something into her ear. Gently, Prim guided her over to a cot Bungo had installed for Bilbo in the corner of the study, when Bilbo had been a faunt. It had seemed to Bilbo that Bungo had used it more often then him at the time, but the older Bilbo became, the more he understood the need for a midafternoon nap.

Prim quietly tucked Lobelia into the soft blankets Bilbo had piled next to the cot before she slowly came to stand beside him. “It was too late for me to make the trip to the Brandybuck Halls and when I realized Lobelia had been turned away from Grandfather…” Prim whispered, her fingers twisting in front of her. “I didn’t know where she could go, aside from here.”

“No. You did alright.” Bilbo assured the tween. In truth, _Otho_ had been better liked then Lobelia in the Shire. Knowing what he did now, Bilbo had to wonder how much of Lobelia's actions were brought on by the contract. But, that didn’t erase the fact Lobelia had little to no friends in Hobbition and truly, if she wanted her extended kin that wouldn’t be influenced by her parents, she would have better luck marching to the Brandywine and following it to the fields between the Shire and Bree.

What did it say about someone when their only support came from the cousin of their lying and manipulative husband? That being said, what did it say about Bilbo that he willingly sacrificed his cousin to a fate worse than death?

Today was a day for grim thoughts indeed.

Prim sniffed a bit. “You have other guests to attend to Bilbo.” She eventually reminded him as she walked over to the hearth and began to inspect what needed to be done for her to draw up a nice comforting fire. “I can entertain myself and keep and eye on Lobelia. We wouldn’t want those spoons disappearing after all.”

Bilbo placed the contract on the desk. It was rather wrinkled and worn after being shoved in pockets and crushed between Lobelia and himself. She didn’t need to sign, Bilbo hadn’t lied to her, but they all knew if Lobelia signed contract no one could touch her for damning Otho or darling to raise a child alone. “If she wakes?”

Prim made a shooting motion as she finally got the new log to catch aflame. “Then I will get you at once. Now go.”

Bilbo nodded once and slipped out of the study as quietly as he could, latching the door with a slight click. Turning, he looked into the dining room, grinning slightly as the scene he saw. The two faunts were glaring at each other over top of what looked to be the last of Great Aunt Daisy Baggins’ cinnamon buns and Bilbo must have been away longer then he thought, because instead of there being _four_ dwarrow at the table, there were _nine_.

Shaking his head at the fact Bilbo had somehow missed the entrance of five more dwarrow, Bilbo stepped into the light of the dining room. “I'm sorry for not greeting you all. There was a problem that required my immediate attention.”

All the Dwarrow but Master Dwalin and one curious looking fellow in the back, the tri-points of his hair casting odd shadows onto his face, jumped. The reaction did not do much to chase the guilt that had settled onto his shoulders the moment Lobelia had originally appeared on his doorstep a few days before. Slowly, all the dwarrow turned to look at him, and Bilbo had to stifle a grin at the sight of the blond faunt swiping the cinnamon bun away the moment the other boy took his eyes off the morsel.

“I do hope there is enough food? Gandalf hadn’t said how many were seeking shelter after all.” Bilbo fretted, suddenly remembering once again that he had cooked for the appetites of Men, not dwarrow. And there were faunts! Faunts ate so much more then grown adults.

Master Dwalin gave a significant look to Master Balin. Almost as if to say ‘I told you so' but before Bilbo could question the dwarf, Master Dwalin was rising to his feet. In the background, the two faunts were looking back at the table with wide eyes.

“There could be more food, Fee?” The shorter one asked, his eyes wide behind his curtain of unruly hair.

From the way no one else besides the other faunt, Fee apparently, reacted, Bilbo summarized he wasn’t supposed to have heard that. Huh, hobbit hearing. Bilbo tended to forget Men weren't hard of hearing as much as Hobbits could simply hear more then them. Apparently, it was the same for Dwarrow.

That would have to be marked in the primer.

“You have done more then enough, Master Baggins.” Dwalin rumbled with a sharp nod as he gave a short gesture to his company. “This is my brother Balin,” the old dwarf inclined his head, “my shield brother's sister-sons, Fili and Kili.”

The two faunts startled before they drew themselves up and bowed in unison. Bilbo gave them a small clap of appreciation at the act. It had been a while since he had seen two twins able to respond so succinctly this far into their tween years after all. Most Took twins were fostered separately during the summers, if only to keep their poor mother from going to spare. The twins looked up in surprise, their dumbstruck expression turning into unbridled glee at his response.

For some reason Bilbo didn’t feel this was a good thing.

Master Dwalin's expression was soft as he gazed at the two boys before he turned and swept a hand over the broody looking fellow looming over a redhead with more knitted things wrapped around his wrists and neck then Widower Felix. The poor man had very little left of his wife, and he kept every bit of her last project on his as much as he could. Belatedly Bilbo also realized the poor shy thing was also a faunt, and oh this would not do! Three faunts with growing bellies and Bilbo had not nearly cooked enough food.

“This is Nori, Ori, and…”

Before Master Dsalin could continue, the third dwarf of the group, one Bilbo had shamefully missed, stood up with a polite bow. “And I am Dori.”

“Charmed.” Bilbo said back on reflex as he sketched out a bow of his own, falling back onto the _court_ manners Bungo had drilled into him alongside every other Baggins child.

Drat. Bilbo had forgotten to write to Drogo's father about possible standing in as a teacher for those lessons. He knew he had forgotten something in his mad rush.

Finally, Dwalin turned to the last two. “This is Gloin and Oin.” Bilbo didn’t have much time to take in the last two figures before Dwalin was facing the group. “And this,” this time Master Dqalin gestured to Bilbo, “is Master Bilbo Baggins. He has offered to put us up for the night and provide us with food. He is under no obligation for anything more.”

Gloin, the red head tossed Bilbo an assessing look before turning towards the Oin and repeating the introduction Dwalin had offered, even as his fingers flew quickly to mimic something like the Shire Finger Speak.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, noting that Oin was the one with the untenable grey hair and wild braids. It would not do to turn his back on this dwarf. No, that would be the height of rudeness, it wouldn’t do for Master Oin not to be able to read his lips or not hear him due to Bilbo not looking at him straight on.

“Is there anything…” Bilbo began only to stumble to a halt as someone knocked on the front door. Bilbo offered a strained smile as he turned on his heel and hurried towards the door, ignoring the any Master Dwaalin flicked a finger towards Master Nori to scramble after him.

This had better not be the Bounders. Bilbo did not have the patience to deal with the Bounders at the moment. And, as much as he wished the news Otho had been found dead would fall into his hands, it simply wouldn’t do to count the minutes before the bastard’s death. Bilbo wasn’t that selfish. He’d let Lobelia hold that honour of counting down until the ink on his cousin’s death certificate was signed.

Although he might bake a cake to mark the occasion.

This seemed to be a night of plastering on fake smiles, Bilbo reflected as he opened his door. However, unlike the last two times, the dwarrow on the other side didn’t attempt to bowl him over or even surprise him to death. Instead, of the three dwarrow standing at the door, the first stood with his gaze firmly to the ground. He had a hat being twisted to death in his hands as he fidgeted from foot to foot worse than Prim when she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

There was something familiar about this one. Bilbo hadn’t met many dwarrow, but this one…

Bilbo knew this one.

“Toymaker!” Bilbo gasped as his porch light swung in the breeze enough to shift the shadows around. It had been years since Bilbo had played with the dolls made for the miniature Bag End. And it had been much longer since there had been any paint left on the little moveable joints and faces. In all honesty, after Belladonna had died, Bilbo had put the game away in the Corner of his bookshelf in the study. It had hurt to see it sitting as a prized gift in the den, waiting for his mother to spin stories about three dwarrow, the hobbit parents and a brave little faunt, for Hobbition's gaggle of faunts and tweens.

The little dolls of his parents sat on the mantle now. Bungo had always said up until the say he died that he had always meant to get a portrait done of his family. In the end it hadn’t been possible, and the dolls had always been a passing likeness. Besides, Belladonna had never felt well enough to get a portrait done after Bungo had died, and now?

Bilbo was grateful one of his parents’ friends knew them well enough to have given Bilbo something of his parents, even if it wasn’t a portrait.

Squinting, Bilbo leaned out of his door, quickly looking over the other two stunned dwarrow. “Oh, you two must be Baker and Guardian!”

This time Bilbo gave the three dwarrow a genuine smile. “I am sorry. My mother, Belladonna, gave many of your stories a Shire twist. I am afraid I do not know your names.”

Toymaker’s face split into a wide wobbling smile. “Ah, yes of course. No names. Bofur son of Bahir, at your service.”

Bilbo's smile became fixed.

Bofur gave him a quick grin. “I know what I offer, Bilbo Baggins. I owed your parents more than I could ever repay. That debt transferred to you upon their death. I am not offering contract, just acknowledgement of old friendships.”

Bilbo let out the breath he was holding. “That was a very foolish thing to do.”

The dwarf Bilbo had grown up hearing about as a Baggins hero, the one who helped them _understand_ the dwarrow court, shook his head. “Not to Bungo's son it wasn’t.”

Something in Bilbo's heart broke. “Thank you.” Bilbo whispered as he ducked his head, his throat closing up.

Eighteen years he had waited for somebody to show up and apologize for being late. Eighteen years he had attended his parents’ graves and wondered where all their so-called ‘good friends’ were. And, in less then eighteen hours, he had found out no one knew. No one knew to come calling and the Toymaker, the one dwarf that the Shire was proud to say had helped build smials and whittle toys for children, offered Bilbo his help without oath or contract. Utterly dwarven to the last, but Bofur son of Bahir gave his favours in the way of hobbits and that was the last concker needed to break the dish.

The larger dwarf stepped forward and bowed. “Bombur, son of Bahir, at your service.”

The final dwarf shuffled forward; every bit as wild as the replica Bilbo had admired as a child. Gently he reached up to touch his forehead near the accursed ax, before he gave a soft smile and thumped the pig sticker he had into the dirt. Bilbo nodded once.

Somethings didn’t need to be said to be understood.

“Belladonna and Bungo,” Bilbo paused, swallowing hard at the way Bofur shoved his hat onto his head and refused to look up for a moment. “Mother and Father would be disappointed they missed you. You've become quite the night in shining armour here for the faunts. I’d be careful walking around in the morning.” Bilbo choked out, feeling as if his attempt to lighten the mood had fallen flat.

Bofur nodded once, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “When did they pass?”

“Near eighteen years ago now.”

“Ah.” Bofur muttered with a slight shake of his head. “And their funerals?”

Something in Bilbo’s stomach twisted. This was his father’s apprentice, and no one had told him of Bungo’s passing. By all rights, he should have been the one to carve the grave marker. Closing his eyes for a moment, Bilbo forced his temper down. “I just recently found that the notices had never been sent.”

Bungo had died a handful of years before Belladonna. Bilbo hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on the possibility of how long ago his grandfather’s manipulation had started. If he had started down that path, there would have been the bottom of a few different bottles before Bilbo had finished processing. And truly, there wasn’t _time._ Contracts had to be written, tenants had to be taken care of, and Bilbo still had to live. Belladonna had always said that there was no point on dwelling on the past, and at the moment, Bilbo rather had to agree with her.

It would make sense for Grandfather to have been manipulating the situation that far back, but for the sake of his mother’s memory, Bilbo wouldn’t pursue the matter. Grandfather hadn’t done anything illegal afterall. Technically Bilbo had written and posted the letters, which was what Belladonna had expressly asked for. There was nothing about the letters making it to their destination or that no one could hold onto the letters. No one had ever written _when_ the letters were to be sent.

“Are you with the others?” Bilbo managed to croak out at the strained expression on Bofur’s face.

Something flashed in Bofur’s eyes and the dwarf was gently nudging Bilbo out of the way as he stepped into Bag End. His expression grew dark when he saw the weapon rack. “Iron.” He hissed as he placed his mattock against the wall. “They insult you by bearing iron under your roof.”

Oh dear, they had. Bilbo realized as he took a closer look at the weapon rack. Oh, blessed Yavanna, if Lobelia had leaned against one of those, she would have been burned so much worse then Bilbo had ever been in his entire life. Pregnant women carrying a babe of Baggins blood always felt the pain of iron more then any other.

”Stay here with my brother and uncle, will you? I have some rude dwarrow to speak to.” Bofur said suddenly with a bouncing grin, tipping his hat towards Bilbo before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall.

“What? No!” Bilbo protested even as he was caught by the arm by Bombur.

“I wouldn’t do that lad. Bofur is just going to have a talk.” Bombur rumbled before letting Bilbo go when he was sure Bilbo wasn’t going to dart away.

“If you dwarrow have ‘talks’ like Big Folk, then I have concerns.” Bilbo muttered, concerned Lobelia was going to be awoken by the row. “Besides, there is no need to defend my honour!” Bilbo said furiously. “Its not as if they drew on me!”

Bombur nodded comfortingly. “Oh, I’m sure, but this is just to make sure there are no mistakes later down the road. Besides, a few dwarrow in there should have known better simply because of their station.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “You are awfully chatty, you’re not trying to keep me here while Toymaker goes and….wait.” Bilbo turned over what the dwarf had just said. “Station?”

Baker suddenly looked taken back. “No one told you…”

“Master Bilbo!” A shout came from Bilbo’s garden gate, effectively cutting off Bombur’s words.

“We will speak about this.” Bilbo muttered furiously as he stepped around the two dwarrow and shoved them into the smial. “Coming!” He tossed over his shoulder as he closed his door in the face of the two bemused dwarrow.

“Master Baggins! Something has happened!”

Oh, now Otho died, Bilbo thought with no little amount of bitterness. Couldn’t his cousin have been declared dead earlier when it was more convenient?

Turning, Bilbo plastered on his customer smile again. “Oh? Something has happened this far into Hobbiton?”

Caradoc Silverstring stepped onto the porch a proud expression on his face. New to the Bounders, the poor boy had stationed to the Green Dragon, helping hobbits who had over indulged find their way home rather then falling asleep under the party tree. “Yes! Look what I have found.” Caradoc waved his hand to a figure that was currently glaring at Bilbo’s fencepost. Caradoc leaned closer, his eyes wide. “He said he was looking for a Burglar, and I told myself, now Caradoc, there aren’t any thieves in the Shire! Aside from the Sackvilles, but we all know they simply return things that were really lost. ‘Cept your spoons, Master Baggins. Anyhow, I said ‘there aren’t any Burglars here Master Dwarf. You had better get a move on.’ Wouldn’t want that kind of folk hanging around, you know. But! He shook his head and told me ‘he had to find the Master Baggins right away.’ And of course, you being the only official Master Baggins around, I said to myself Caradoc ‘he means Master Bilbo!’ but you aren’t being any burglar, if you don’t mind me a sayin’ so.”

Suddenly Bilbo remembered why Caradoc had been left to help the chatty drunks. “Oh.” Bilbo cut in quickly, his ears ringing from the young bounder’s babbling. “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. He is here for contract.”

Bilbo did not feel bad about the fib, by his quick count he was one dwarf short anyhow. Hopefully there hadn’t been one in the bathroom Master Dwalin had forgotten to introduce. But, even if Caradoc’s dwarf wasn’t the right one, well, it wasn’t as if this company were waiting for one particular dwarf.

Caradoc’s mouth snapped shut. “Ah. Uh. I’ll bring him here then.”

The poor boy looked grim and Bilbo gave him a quick reassuring smile.

Caradoc nodded again and shuffled in place, leaving the dwarf in the lane. After a moment of silence, a silence Bilbo hadn’t thought possible with Caradoc around, Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem Bounder Silverstring?”

Bilbo's voice might have been a bit sharp, but with the day he had been having, he rather thought he was allowed the small slip up of his temper.

“I thought you didn’t make contracts. You only amended them.” Caradoc murmured, his eyes wide.

It took a second for Bilbo to catch the underlying waver in the boy’s voice. It took even longer for Bilbo to understand what the waver meant. “Caradoc, I am not going to swindle you out of a contract.” Bilbo bit out sternly. “Every Baggins is taught to build and amend contracts. You know this. Just because I specialize in amending, does not mean I cannot make a contract. And Caradoc Silverstring, I babysat you as a favour to your mother when you were a faunt. Do you really think me a burglar?”

Cararoc winced even as he began to pale. “Oh no, Master Bilbo. Definitely not. It was just, well, the dwarf said that he has looking for you and he said burglar and well, you are part Took, sir. A bit of wild is to be expected, and besides, if you don’t mind me saying, sir, you never did fit the respectability of a Baggins well.”

Ah.

Caradoc was the grandson of a Took, if Bilbo remembered correctly. He knew what Took blood meant. He also knew what it meant for Took blood to skip a generation.

“It’s alright.” Bilbo said, patting the boy in the shoulder and walking him down the path to the gate. “I’m not going to run off halfcocked.”

The last scandal that had rocked the Shire had been about Caradoc's eldest sister, now that Bilbo thought about the incident. It wasn’t necessary to take out a contract before leaving the Shire, but it certainly helped. Caradoc's eldest sister had bolted before the spring thaw and, unfortunately, she became another cautionary tale of why tweens shouldn't go off for a lark.

Caradoc nodded once. “Want me to stop by in the morning before my rounds, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo shooed him off with a rueful smile. If there was one thing to say about Caradoc, it was that the boy always did his best to make sure his people were safe, even if it was on his off time. “Oh, go on. That won’t be necessary.”

Caradoc wavered at the entrance of the path for a moment before he inclined his head and began to stride down the road with little more then a low cheerful whistle. Bilbo didn’t watch him go, instead he turned to the dwarf who was still staring at the fencepost. “You know, I doubt it is going to say anything different even if you keep staring at it.”

The dwarf shook his head before he gave Bilbo a long assessing look. “You are the burglar?” He didn’t sound overly impressed.

Yavanna give him strength to deal with her husband’s children. “No.”

The dwarf shook his head, his lip curling up in what Bilbo guessed was disgust. “Even the halfling thinks this is hopeless.”

Bilbo’s immediate reaction was indignation. He was half of nothing. He was one whole person, thank you very much, besides no hobbit was half of anything. Bilbo didn’t call dwarrow Stonehearts after all and he would appreciate the same respect back. But, today had already had enough anger to last the week, if not the whole month. So, instead of blowing up and utterly losing his steadily rising temper, Bilbo offered a calm nod as he leaned against the fence post. “Typically, things are pretty hopeless if you don’t explain what they are.”

The dwarf looked up and Bilbo winced at the dark circles under his eyes. Even Lobelia hadn’t looked as bad as this.

“Don’t insult me.” He growled as he took a step forward, looming over Bilbo as if to shame him into submission.

Long used to exhausted customers and annoyed innocents caught in the backlash of a contract, Bilbo heaved in a deep breath. “I offer no insult. Gandalf told me to expect people when he surprised me this morning. He did not tell me who, how many, or why.”

“You do not have to make excuses halfling. I understand cowardness and selfishness the same as any other.”

Oh. This was going to be one of those conversations, wasn’t it? Bilbo resisted the urge to rub at this temple. “I’m sure you do. Just as well as I understand rudeness and insult in the form of degrading my people due to my stature. I am only a hand shorter than you.”

The dwarf stared at him, wrongfooted. “I…”

Bilbo nodded along, his elbow coming up to rest on his mailbox as he stared up at the dwarf. “Hobbit. The word you are looking for is Hobbit.”

The dwarf continued to stare.

“How about we try this again?” Bilbo offered as the silence dragged out. “Hello Master Dwarf. My name is Bilbo Baggins, current Master of the Baggins Clan and Holder of Oath and Contract. This is Bag End. I currently have twelve dwarrow sitting in my dinning room, holding onto the promise of free room and board for the evening. I am expecting one more to appear for the evening, along with Gandalf the Grey. Are you the thirteenth?”

The dwarf blinked at him, his expression twisting up into something Bilbo guessed was between exasperation and despair. “I am Thorin…” Thorin paused, his jaw clenching as he looked to the side for a moment. “Just Thorin. And I suppose I am the unlucky thirteenth member of this company that does not even have a burglar now.”

Bilbo cracked a grin, deciding to ignore most of Thorin’s muttered comment. “Well, at least somebody knows the etiquette of the Shire.”

Thorin tossed Bilbo a quick look before mulishly staring back at the fencepost. “I don’t…” he paused before shaking his head again. “You are aware this mark declares the sole inhabitant a burglar?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I figured that out for myself after the first dwarf appeared at my door asking for a thief.”

There was a slight hum from the grumpy dwarf before he finally stepped through the gate. “You mentioned something about food?”

“And drink.” Bilbo tacked on with another grin. “If your companions were kind enough to leave you any.”

“Lead the way, Master Baggins.” Thorin demanded as he straightened out his vambraces and looked generally as if he was preparing for a fight.

A loud crash echoed from inside Bag End, interrupting whatever Bilbo had been thinking, the trail of thought fading away before he could pin it down. Instead, Bilbo found himself sighing at his own front door and for the second time that evening, prayed for patience. Maybe Master Thorin had the right idea to prepare for a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this thing has exploded faster then anything else I've written. I have to thank every single one of you who have been leaving such wonderful comments, kudos, bookmarks, or even just having a grand old time reading this fic. i hope it continues to keep up with everyone's expectations.  
> Also, cause I always wanted to say this,  
> HI OMA and OPA! THANKS FOR READING THIS. (I just wanted to see if you were paying attention)  
> ALSO a big hello to Hazardofacat and Popcorn! You guys made it into the authors notes, isn't that cool?


	7. The Thirteenth Dwarf and Contracts to be Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!  
> We have a new chapter! YAY!  
> A little while ago I said we would be out of the Shire soon...well obviously that didn't happen. So, we're still here in Bag End and will be for at least another chapter. Hopefully we will be on the move soon.  
> There are no warnings for this chapter other then a few good chuckles.  
> So, as always, have fun, enjoy, and for the love of hobbits and fics, please don't shoot me  
> -Lost

Off the top of his head, Bilbo had been expecting at least a half dozen different scenarios of what he might find inside when he had heard the crash come from inside Bag End. In all honesty, he had imagined anything from Bofur having gone the way of Big Folk and attempting to physically manhandle everyone out of his door, to one of the faunts having accidentally murdered his prized cookie jar. The latter had happened before by the way of Hamfast’s eldest and Bilbo was not looking forward to attempting to lecture dwarrow faunts about broken crockery.

However, in no way shape or form was Bilbo expecting to open his door and immediately have to duck Lobelia's wild swing of Bilbo's best frying pan. Considering that monster was only brought out when cooking for clan meetings, Bilbo was surprised to see Lobelia was able to hold it, let alone swing it upwards above her head at the average height of a dwarf. Thorin, who had been nearly trotting on Bilbo's heels and looking in the wrong direction, was not as lucky to duck the swing.

The frying pan connected with a solid _crack_ and he went down like a sack of bricks.

“Lobelia!” Bilbo shouted as he dropped to his knees and frantically checked the pulse of the dwarf, breathing easier when he saw Thorin groan. “What are you doing?”

Lobelia had both arms extended, the frying pan shaking in her grip as she stood with her back against the wall. “Bilbo?” she whispered, her eyes wild enough Bilbo could see the whites, “Bilbo there are dwarrow in your house.”

Abandoning Thorin on the floor now that he new the poor dwarf wasn’t dead, Bilbo stood and gently tugged at the frying pan until Lobelia let go. Poor Lobelia was spooked and it was no wonder considering the week she had been having. “You did see them when you came in.” Bilbo chided gently.

Placing the frying pan on top of one of the many boxes in the hall, Bilbo tried to give Lobelia a bit of time to collect her thoughts.

Lobelia huffed, her hands dropping to her skirts as she looked away. “I was rather distracted.” She admitted softly, “and I am afraid that other than seeing someone at your door…”

“Let's get you to a guest room, shall we?” Bilbo offered, breaking into the awkward silence that was starting to well between them. “Primula might have been getting ahead of herself earlier, but she was not wrong. I can put you up for the evening at least. Although,” Bilbo grimaced, wondering how badly he had annoyed the Valar lately, when every bit of bad luck seemed to be dodging his heels today, “the dwarrow are staying over as well.”

Lobelia nodded from where she had slumped against the wall.

“I can go over to Hamfast and see if he can take you, if you would prefer.” Bilbo offered gently. “Its no bother.”

“No.” Lobelia sniffed, her hands clenching in her skirts again. “I think I would like one of those guest rooms if you don’t mind. Just…” she trailed off, her eyes daring nervously to the dining room.

For a moment, Bilbo didn’t understand the issue and he began to puff up in indignation. Surely Lobelia wouldn’t be so crass as to think that it would be unsafe for a hobbit to sleep under the same roof as a dwarf? Lobelia should know better than to assume that…

Bilbo’s thoughts trailed off. Oh. The problem was simpler than that. There were going to be seventeen people under his roof before the night was out. Fifteen of which were male. One underage girl and a young pregnant woman who had lived under the threat of contract for five years, alongside fifteen men who both outnumbered and loomed over them without meaning too.

“Come along Lobelia, let’s get you and Prim a plate from the kitchen and then settle you into the master bedroom for the night.” Bilbo offered as he gently picked up the frying pan and pressed it into Lobelia's hand. It was better for her to at least feel like she had some protection while under his roof.

(Bilbo could kill Otho for what he had done to Lobelia. Proud, uncaring, cold Lobelia, who had broken more than one boy's nose when they had been faunts. Bilbo had lived in fear alongside every other tween when her umbrella had been gifted to her by her father. Lobelia with a fist was already bad enough. Lobelia with leverage and a heavy handled umbrella? No tween slept safe until her thirty-third birthday. At that point, Lobelia began to sharpen her tongue and may Yavanna protect them all, at least it wasn’t a broken nose that occurred in the market every other Tuesday.)

It was no secret in Hobbition that the master bedroom of Bag End had a lock accessible only from the inside of the room. Its existence had sparked debate up and down the Shire. Waggling tongues and quirked eyebrows had haunted the hall leading to the master bedroom every day for nearly six months after Bag End had initially been opened for Belladonna to show off her wedding gift.

In later years, when Bilbo had been forced to go into town and ask for help to maintain the upkeep of Bag End, he wasn’t sure what had been the source of gossip more. The fact Bilbo had never dismantled the lock on the master bedroom, or that Bilbo had installed a lock accessible only from the inside of Bag End, on the front door.

“Bilbo.” Looking up, Bilbo caught sight of Prim standing at the entrance to the study, an apologetic look on her face. “Sorry. Lobelia decided she wanted some tea and, well, she didn’t react well to being startled.”

Bilbo gave her a quick nod. He didn’t blame Prim for not stopping Lobelia. The woman was difficult to stand against when she was being pleasant, let alone when she was on a warpath. Beckoning Prim closer, Bilbo jerked his head toward the dining room. “Could you ask for Master Dwalin from the dining room? I believe the last of his party is here.”

Prim nodded, before she reared back and stared at the dwarf at Bilbo's feet as if she hadn’t noticed him before. For a moment, Bilbo was afraid she was going to scream but instead, the tween smiles. “Oh, good swing Lobelia.”

Lobelia shared a long-suffering look with Bilbo as Prim ducked away.

“Tooks.” She sniffed, her hands flexing on the frying pan. “You're all fools of a Took.”

Bilbo decided to ignore the hitching of her breath. “Need I remind you that _you_ are the one who knocked out the dwarf in one hit?” Bilbo asked mildly.

“What's this about an unconscious dwarf?” Master Dwalin rumbled in the doorway of the dining room, causing both Lobelia and Bilbo to jump, quickly distracting them both from their bickering.

Bilbo jerked a finger in Master Thorin’s direction. “I'm afraid that one caught the wrong end of my cousin's wild swing.”

Master Dwalin stared at Bilbo for a long moment before he switched his gaze to the crumpled form of Master Thorin. “Is he breathing?” Master Dwalin asked, sounding almost morbidly curious.

“I should hope so!” Bilbo squawked, his hands fluttering to grab Lobelia by the elbow and gently guide her further into Bag End, lest she decide to take offence to the insinuation she was a murderess.

Master Dwalin hummed something that sounded like a rough agreement before stalking forward and past the two hobbits. Growling something in a tongue Bilbo had never heard before, Bilbo had to wince when Dwalin nudged the fallen dwarf with his foot none too gently.

Somehow, Bilbo managed to tug Lobelia away and settle her in his bedroom without having the dwarrow in the dinning room send him any questions. There had been a few searching looks, but in truth they appeared to be rather interested in the way Toymaker was standing at the head of the table with his arms crossed.

Bilbo didn’t see any bruises when he walked through but he was already dreading to find out what the crash had been. If he could hear the noise from _outside_ Bag End, then there was a good chance it was something Bilbo wouldn’t be able to replace. Still, in all likelihood, Master Dwain had spread the word about there being a family emergency, and for the first time in his life, Bilbo found himself thanking Mahal for the discretion of dwarrow. At least they did not hound him the way hobbits would have, to see Lobelia hanging onto his arm as if there was no strength left in her bones.

“You keep a very nice room.” Lobelia whispered as the door shut behind them.

Bilbo had a feeling the response was more instinctive politeness then any real compliment. In truth, his bedroom had always been sparsely decorated, a direct contrast to the near cluttered shelves of the rest of Bag End. Anything of value, Bilbo had always kept in the study and as he had grown, he had never saw the point in re-decorating the room.

There was a book on his nightstand and a smattering of quills and inkwells scattered about what had used to be his mother’s vanity before Bilbo had taken it over for a writing desk. The wardrobe door was ajar and may Yavanna help him, there was a minor collection of teacups by the feet of his chair tucked in the corner of the room. By no means was his bedroom perfect, but for an old bachelor, it could have been much worse.

Lobelia let go of his arm and stumbled forward until she reached the bed. Then the woman all but crumpled onto the mattress, her body twisting until she was face first into his pillows. In the silence, they both pretended Bilbo couldn’t see the way her shoulders shook.

In a rare moment of sympathy, (because it wasn’t the same, but Bilbo remembered what it was like to stand in a room not his own and realize he was all alone in the world) Bilbo tugged his mother’s patchwork quilt out from the chest at the foot of the bed and threw it over his cousin-in-law. Belladonna had not done much in the way of tradition, but Bilbo knew Belladonna had done the same quilt as her mother before her, attempting to bless the hearth of her new home with well wishes and safety.

Every hobbit lass made one in their lifetime, and Bilbo happened to know Lobelia had taken the same pattern for her own smial. It wasn’t her quilt, but maybe it would provide some comfort to be under the same wishes that hung on her wall.

Lobelia refrained from looking at him as she tugged the blanket over her shoulders and curled into a tighter ball.

“I have to go now, Lobelia. Prim will be along in a minute or two.” Bilbo offered as he shuffled awkwardly in place. This was why he dealt in the amendments of contracts. He didn’t have to deal with overwrought signees when he was just the distant consultant.

Lobelia gave him a slight nod even as Bilbo slipped out of his door.

Stepping into his dinning room, Bilbo was pleasantly surprised to see Master Thorin sitting at the table, his head being prodded at by Master Oin. Rubbing at the buttons on his vest, Bilbo had to admit that it had been a while since he had been caught so wrongfooted.

“Your cousin has a nice swing.” Master Dwalin offered from where he was gathering a small plate.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Prim quipped as she ducked past Bilbo, two plates in her hands. “You lot have fun now.”

Bilbo watched the exchange without saying a word. Maybe Lobelia was right, he really was a fool of a Took.

“Your daughter?” Master Dwalin asked as he set the plate down at Master Thorin’s elbow. “She has already made your cousin’s apologies for hitting Nori upside the head as well.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow even as he absently said, “Oh no, Prim is not my daughter. Too Brandybuck, that one.”

What did he mean Lobelia had hit Master Nori as well? Cringing at the thought of how relations between dwarrow and hobbit was going to become even more strained after this hell of an evening, Bilbo took a look at Master Nori.

The poor dwarf was sitting at the table, his cheeky grin marred by the red handprint on the side of his face. Bilbo almost stumbled in shock. Lobelia, for all her faults, had never struck another without some bludgeoning force in her hand. To be struck with an open palm, well…

“What did you do Master Nori?” Bilbo gasped.

“Ah, well. It seems your cousin might have caught my brother with his hands in your silver.” Pipped up a small voice to Bilbo’s left. Whirling around, Bilbo caught the resigned expression of the littlest faunt, Ori. “Are you going to kick us out now?” The faunt whispered, his eyes wide even as he clenched his plate a little tighter.

Caught wrongfooted yet again, Bilbo could do little but chuckle. “Oh no. No.” Bilbo denied between gasps. “Lobelia was probably just jealous. She always wanted my grandmother’s silver you see, and I doubt she took it well that someone else was _admiring_ them.”

The faunt stared at him for a moment before he shot a quick look at his brothers. “You aren’t annoyed?”

Bilbo paused. Was he mad? Yes, but not at Master Nori. Bilbo had no doubt the so-called ‘admiration’ Ori had admitted to was more about sticky fingers and heavy pockets then it was about how Bilbo had just polished the spoons until they shone.

Bilbo was part Took after all, he knew to check pockets and coats before his guests left. Besides, bilbo had had too many desperate signees in his smial over the years for him not to budget in the loss of a few bits of good silver. It was a necessary loss if it meant little faunts could continue to eat. Bilbo wasn’t an easy mark, but he knew how coin could look odd on the road. He could take the loss of his silver and really, between him and Lobelia it had long become a game. Something to do to keep the Sackville and Took blood soothed on long nights.

“No.” Bilbo admitted with a soft smile. “As long as his pack isn’t weighted down when he leaves, I don’t mind.”

Looking around, Bilbo snagged a small pile of loose paper and his own writing tools, settling in at one end of the table. Typically, it was bad form to talk business over a meal but with the Disturber of the Peace bound to arrive at any moment, it was probably better to get the details of the situation over and done with before Gandalf could meddle.

“So, what kind of contract were you sent here to create?” Bilbo asked the room at large, hoping against hope that that was the reason Bag End had been invaded by dwarrow.

“We were sent here for a burglar.” Master Balin began as the room fell into silence, sharing a long look with Master Dwalin, Master Balin flicked something in fingerspeak before he winced and turned to Bilbo again. “We were also told by Tharkun that you had consented to this quest several months ago.”

It took effort not to snap the quill in his hand.

This is why the Baggins discouraged the relationship with the In-Between with the Tooks. The old In-Betweener did not value words the same way the Shire did. He did not deal in contract and favours, instead he dealt with heavy-handed encouragement and force.

“I told you.” Bofur snapped, his hand hitting the table as he glared around at the other dwarrow. “Master Baggins did not know.”

“I would assume,” Bilbo mused as he waved Toymaker down, “that you already have at least an experienced thief in your midst for whatever you are attempting to do.”

In the corner of his eye, he watched as Master Nori winced under the _look_ given by Master Dori.

Even the faunts looked taken back. “You don’t know about the quest to go to Erebor?”

“Took contract.” Bilbo said a little desperately. “Please tell me you are at least after a Took contract.”

Bofur threw his head back and laughed, his hat almost falling off his head in his mirth. “There is no Took contract between any of us.”

Bilbo blinked, his quill halting just above the inkwell. “And you take to the road anyway?”

It was Master Balin who leaned forward and cut through the general noise of the dwarrow again. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding somewhere along the way. We are not here for contract.”

“Of bloody course not.” Bilbo muttered, eyeing the dwarrow who had suddenly clenched their plates in white knuckles and stared at him with wide eyes.

Master Balin stood and walked around the table to hand him a contract. There was an odd fury in his gaze and Bilbo did his best not to wince. “The Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo shot a look towards the dwarf cradling both his head and a cup of mead at the end of his table. Not only had Lobelia knocked out a dwarf, she had knocked out the leader of this party. Oh, he would lord this over her head for _years._ “The Company of Thorin Oakenshield was gathered to march on Erebor and recover the Arkenstone.” Balin continued, his hands folding over his stomach as he regarded Bilbo with an assessing gaze.

Picking up the contract, Bilbo raised an eyebrow as it unrolled and hit the ground, bouncing as it continued for a moment. Bilbo hummed absently, fighting down his dismay as he found certain clauses _unfolded_ from the main contract.

Bungo would be rolling in his grave he saw this.

“Up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any.”* Bilbo quoted, twitching slightly as he read the next clause. “Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including but not limited to lacerations, evisceration … incineration”?”* Bilbo paused for a moment. “And why would this be a concern?”

To his right, Toymaker tapped a hand against the table, his face oddly drawn. “There’s the might small problem of a dragon sitting in the mountain.”

“Dragon.” Bilbo muttered as he scanned the contract again, noting that there were nearly a dozen clauses on what the ‘burglar’ was not to do while in the presence of the company, but not what the actual job outline entailed.

“Aye. Think a furnace with wings.” Toymaker uttered a little to cheerfully. “One breath and poof, goodbye burglar.”

Bilbo hummed an absent agreement. He knew what a dragon was, thank you very much. He had listened to Belladonna’s wild tales as a faunt enough times to be down right concerned with the idea of a dragon being at the end of the quest. But he had other pressing concerns. Even if he didn’t go, (the likelihood of him leaving Bag End for this fools errand was becoming slimmer by the minute) he might as well help with some amendments before he sent the contract in to the Took clan for consideration.

(He had never lost a Took yet, damnit. Dragon or not this contract would have to be amended. Perhaps it would be run past Lobelia, she might now a Took-Sackville willing to go for a jaunt outside of the Shire.)

“Be that as it may,” Bilbo said as he began to copy out the contract for revision, his gaze fixed firmly on the draft in front of him, “I…”

“I’ll go.”

Bilbo’s quill broke.

“No. No. No, certainly not!” Bilbo shouted as he spun to face Prim. Behind him, Bilbo knew the dwarrow had fallen into a quick and sudden silence. Toymaker might have fallen back into his chair if Bilbo was hearing things correctly, but he was more focused on the scene before him. The tween had a firm grip on the traveling pack Bilbo had mistaken for Lobelia’s a short while ago and was staring at him with a pinched expression. “You are not leaving the Shire, Primula Brandybuck.”

“I am as much a Took as you!” Prim shouted back, her hands tightening on the pack. “And I sent in a missive to the Thain to be able to take a contract. I have just as much right to this contract as anyone else!”

“I won’t allow it.” Bilbo near spat, panic making him short with her. What could she be thinking? An underage tween leaving the Shire? The last one had been found face down in the Brandywine by her own father, Bilbo would not see that fate rest upon Prim’s shoulders.

“Are you going to be like Grandfather?” Prim snarled back.

Bilbo sucked in a breath. Oh, that was a low blow and from the look of Prim’s pale cheeks, she knew it too. Still, the tween persisted. “You can’t go _Master Baggins_.” Prim murmured, stressing his title as she held out a hand for the contract. “If you go then Drogo has to take over and…”

“Oh Prim,” Bilbo breathed, stepping forward to draw the girl into a hug. The poor girl didn’t resist. Instead, she dropped the bag at their feet and curled into Bilbo’s hold. “Drogo will be fine. He’s been studying to take over for almost a decade and his father has promised to help him if something happened to me.”

“What about Lobelia?” Prim whispered into his collar, her hands twisting into his vest. “You can’t leave Lobelia.”

“What’s this really about?” Bilbo asked as Prim shuffled further into his collar. Prim muttered something into his throat and Bilbo sighed as he patted her hair absently. “I can’t hear you.”

Prim shoved back from Bilbo’s chest with a fierce little scowl. “If you go, who is going to sign a Took contract with you?”

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow. “Prim, that’s not what has you tied up in knots.”

For a moment, Bilbo wondered if Prim was going to kick him in the shin, but instead, the tween twisted on her heel and bolted for the front door without another word. “Prim!” Bilbo shouted after the girl, half considering running after her. “Prim, get back here!”

The front door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

“Damnit.” Bilbo muttered, sinking into his chair again.

“Another family emergency?” Master Dwalin asked, his tentative voice at odds with the scowl that seemed permanently stuck to his face.

Bilbo rubbed at his temple, hoping the headache he sensed dancing around his forehead wouldn’t settle like funeral shroud. It was bad enough the dwarrow had to witness the insanity that had been Bilbo’s day, now he had to try and salvage his own reputation and the possible reputation of whatever Took agreed to the contracted terms. “This is the third today, Master Dwalin. And it doesn’t seem to be slowing.”

The room feel silent again but for the scrape of the faunts' forks against their plates. For all that Bilbo could practically see the rising tension in the older dwarrow at the lack of understanding of what they had walked into, Bilbo was going to take a moment and appreciate that the faunts were so focused on their food, most of the situation was going directly over their heads. Well, almost all of them. Fili was watching him with narrowed eyes.

Bilbo almost cracked a grin at the scene. Trust children to miss the tension of the room and simply continue to eat. Although, it should probably be noted that Master Bombur and Master Thorin had continued to work their way through the platters closest to them, even with the awkward show Prim and Bilbo had out on.

Absently, Bilbo ran an eye over the table as Master Thorin grabbed at another bread roll. He really should have roasted another bird, shouldn’t he? Ah, well. There was always extra bread in the kitchen should there not be enough. Yavanna knew Bilbo was probably going to make himself a sandwich later due to the lack of leftovers on the table.

The only warning Bilbo had that he might have become a little too distracted with all the chaos of the evening, was that swish of grey robes out of the corner of his eye.

“Was that a Brandybuck I saw?”

Somehow, Bilbo was not surprised it was Master Dwalin and Master Nori who reacted first to the sudden appearance of Gandalf the Grey. Although, he had to admit, he was not expecting to see his best silver knife end up quivering between the joints in the wall next to Gandalf's head, nor was he expecting to see Master Dwalin also grab a knife from _somewhere_ and throw it before Gandalf's identity slammed home.

Master Dwalin's eyes widened on horror and Bilbo reacted on instinct. Grabbing one of the napkin rings, Bilbo flicked the ring into the path of the knife without a thought, sighing in relief when both objects clattered to the table.

Gandalf turned in the doorway, first noting Nori's warning and then zeroing in on the ring and knife all the dwarrow were staring at in surprise. “Still the champion at conkers I see.” Gandlaf remarked mildly.

Bilbo dropped back into his seat with a huff. He was the unrivaled champion of conkers in the Shire, had been since just before the Fell Winter. Aside from his prized tomatoes, conkers was the only thing Bilbo ever competed in at the midsummer festival.

“Well.” Master Thorin said from the other end of the table, his gaze punched as he stared Bilbo down. “I suppose that answers the question of what weapon you prefer.”

Kili near bounced out of his seat as Master Thorin spoke. “Another archer!” the faunt crowed, nudging his brother none to gently as he looked at Bilbo with a beaming smile. “Look Fee! Another archer!”

Bilbo blinked. Putting aside the fact he was not an archer by any stretch of the imagination (give him a dart or even an atlatl any day and Bilbo would happily give you back a fish or even some nice rabbit by the end of the day) Bilbo was having a rather shocking realization.

Three faunts.

Three faunts, two of which were twins from the looks of things, were going on a suicide mission to face a great big bloody dragon.

Oh dear, this would not do at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I have to say we've passed another milestone! As of April 26th, 2020, we have 100+ subscriptions, bookmarks, 200+ kudos, and 1400+ hits. We're doing so well guys!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading this, commented, subscribed, bookmarked, or even had a grand old time reading this!


	8. Fauntlings and Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everybody,  
> For future reference, never let a little kid poke around on your phone or they might delete your notes and future chapters by accident. Sorry about the late update but I did have a legit excuse.  
> I hope everyone is staying safe and well during this crazy time. If you're going stir crazy, well, heres a chapter to help shoo away the time. On a side note, happy May 2-4!  
> Have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me,  
> -Lost

There was a long moment of blessed silence, in which Bilbo placed his clenched hands on the table and heaved in a few trembling deep breaths. He was going to ignore his steak knife in the wall. He was also going to ignore the way Master Nori was already sliding another teaspoon into his sleeve. By Yavanna's blessings, he might even ignore the way his mother's crochet doilies were being used as napkins.

However, he could not ignore how across the room, he could see Gandalf topping up a man-sized stemless wine glass and looking as pleased as punch.

“What do you think you are doing?” Bilbo snarled, his hands already grasping for the next ring to throw. “Three faunts, Gandalf. Three! No Took contract between. No guarantee!” he held up the contract Master Balin had given him and shook it rather roughly. “This is a disgrace. My father would be rolling in his grave and you, you blasted In-Betweener told them I had already agreed! I had not seen you since before I was a Tween, Gandalf. A pint-sized faunt searching for fairies in the woods.”

The dwarrow all looked rather impressed at the way Bilbo had shrieked at the In-Betweener, their eyes widening as Bilbo slammed his hand down hard enough to rattle the nearby platters. “I am Master of Bag End, holder of the deed to the Hill and Underhill. I cannot take off like some trained trick show pony all because you promised my services. I am a Baggins, Gandalf. A Baggins. Not a Took.”

The smirk on Gandalf's face fell a little bit with each word Bilbo shouted to the rafters. Quietly frankly, Bilbo couldn’t find it in himself to care. At the moment, it was easier to scream and shout at Gandalf then it was to think about Prim joining this idiotic bunch. Yavanna knew the tween just might, as a way to get back at both Bilbo and grandfather.

Yavanna also knew Bilbo would have done the same had the positions been reversed.

“I am not my mother, Gandalf. She is long buried and sent to the Garden.” He whispered as the wind seemed to fade from his sails. In truth, Bilbo already had enough cause to be angry. However, he didn’t think it was worth being furious while remembering or speaking about his parents. Bilbo already had enough horrible memories to last him a life time, he wasn’t too keen on colouring the few good ones he had in tints of anger.

“You know Shire Law. Contract must be first proposed to the Thain and then given to the Tooks. That law cannot be broken even for you.” Bilbo continued, half wondering if it would be worth it to pour himself a glass of ale.

He had begun the day with a cup and it seemed he would be ending it much the same.

“Your mother would have come.” Gandalf hummed as he took a long draught from his glass. “She never seemed to care for the law.”

“My mother,” Bilbo responded, trying his best not to flinch at the reminder of his mother's flaunting of rules and propriety (Baggins were respectable, Tooks were _odd._ But what did it mean when you were neither but both?) “was the Thain's favored daughter. She, as a person in line for the Thainship, was encouraged to learn more of the world. I ,” Bilbo half snarled, his hand waving about the contract for good measure, “am the head of the Baggins and thus removed from the line of the Thainship. I must bow to the Thain's laws.”

“Oh Bilbo, when did your books and maps come to mean more than the world?” Gandalf said mournfully, his hat almost drooping at the grief in his tone.

For a heartbeat, all Bilbo could do was gape. Books and maps? More than the world? Bilbo was a Baggins. The Baggins. Books and maps meant nothing if contracts could not be mended and reformed. Books and maps meant nothing when contract could mean the difference between a profitable venture and a venture that lead to nothing but a ‘breaker.

Books and maps were nothing in the face of words bound thrice in blood and token.

Aye, his so-called books and maps came from the Heads before him. His study, his smial, held the knowledge and the backing of generations of Baggins. Generations of Heads who swore to protect both Shire and Contract. His books and maps were important, but no Baggins would approve of putting those mamthoms before faunts or unfair contract.

“They became _important,”_ Bilbo twisted the word, thinking of all the contracts and primers littering his study, of how the Heads before him had paved the way for him to notice faith and oath breakers, “when it was all I had left.”

Gandalf looked at him with no small of pity and Bilbo fought the urge to scream.

“Faunts.” Bilbo muttered, dragging a hand over his face as he tried to find some semblance of balance in this disordered garden path of a night. “You brought faunts, Gandalf. Even if my mother had been here, she would never have allowed faunts to march off into the wilds with her.”

For a moment, the In-Betweener simply looked at him, a glass of wine in one hand and his pipe rolling between his fingers in the other. “There are no faunts in this room, Bilbo.”

Drawing himself up, Bilbo threw a hand towards the still slightly fearful Ori, and the two boisterous twins. “They’re faunts. Gandalf. Do not lie to me.”

Well, that announcement threw the room into disarray, the various dwarrow hauling themselves to their feet and shoving the faunts behind them, their hands dropping to the few weapons Bilbo knew they had kept on them. Yet, while a majority of the dwarrow circled their faunts, it was telling that Toymaker’s clan and Master Dwalin (that one had to be a bounder. Bilbo was willing to bet money on it. No other person would be so calm in the face of this much chaos), had not moved from their seats.

“If you think to…” Master Thorin began, his teeth barred in a snarl.

Bilbo flapped a hand (dear lady above, he was being _Took_ ). “How irresponsible are you to bring three faunts against a dragon?” He thundered right back, his hands slamming down on the table again as he stared at the addled dwarrow.

Toymaker looked up at the bang of Bilbo’s fists, his face twisting into a look Bilbo thought better fitting a faunt ducking a matron’s rolling pin, both hands on a pie. “Pebbles.” Toymaker barked out. “Master Baggins thinks those three are pebbles.”

It was the archer that scrambled through the guard of his traveling companions. “I am not a child!” The room fell silent for a moment as everyone stared at the archer, his arms crossed petulantly across his chest. “I am of age.”

Master Dwalin took a long draught of his ale. “Barely.”

Gandalf gave Master Dwalin an annoyed look, to which the bounder raised his mug in a mock salute before looking to the side with a slight smirk as the Man turned back towards Bilbo. “Bilbo. These three are essentially first time Tooks who have gained favour from their Thain to go on this quest.”

If that was supposed to calm Bilbo’s fears, the attempt fell hilariously short of its mark. “You let first timers leave your boundaries?” Bilbo shrieked.

Toymaker scrambled around the table and grabbed Bilbo by the shoulder. “Pardon us for a moment.” Toymaker bit out, half dragging Bilbo into the kitchen.

In the dinning room, the party of dwarrow slowly relaxed their stance around the (probably not) faunts and turned their ire onto the In-Betweener. Bilbo couldn’t resist the small sound of satisfaction that someone other then the Baggins found Gandalf to be annoying at best and dangerous at worst.

Once they were in the kitchen, Toymaker let Bilbo go and gestured to the table. “I think it best we have a talk.”

Bilbo looked back to the dinning room for a long moment, before he slowly nodded and sank down into a seat. Considering how his last conversation at this table had gone, whatever Toymaker was going to say could not be worse. Then Toymaker slid the bottle of Gaffer ale towards him and Bilbo rolled his head back to look up at the ceiling. That was never a good start to any conversation.

Throwing all his good Baggins manners out the window, Bilbo popped the cork and took a long drink straight from the bottle, waving a hand for Toymaker to begin. The poor dwarf looked at him, shaking his head as Bilbo continued to drink. “Your mother used to do the same thing when certain letters came in from the Green Dragon.” He remarked.

Setting the bottle down on the table, Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “And where,” he croaked, the burn crawling up his throat quickly without the aid of tea to bank the flame of liquor, “do you think I learned it? My father?”

Toymaker shrugged, his hands coming up to drag his hat off his head, the ratty think flopping onto the table with a small puff of dust. “It would not surprise me. Bugno had a terrible habit of pulling out the good stuff whenever he wasn’t on a deadline and could afford to, ah, bitch about the ‘idiocy of Man’.”

Bilbo tipped the bottle towards him in acknowledgement and took another long draught. When he was finished, he placed the bottle on the table, and rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the liquor wobble inside. “What’s going on, Toymaker? What’s so important you have to go die in front of a dragon?”

Toymaker poked at his hat, scowling as another puff of dust settled onto the table. “The Wandering Years.”

“What of them?” Bilbo asked, his mind already running a mile a minute. There was a terrible thought crawling up from the crevices of Bilbo’s mind and Toymaker seemed to know it.

The dwarf nodded to the dining room; his face drawn. “The spread you made, could feed a family of four, oh, for about a month if rationed correctly.”

Bilbo dropped his head into his hands. There had been whispers up and down The Hill that the dwarrow who came for contract were increasingly desperate, less willing to listen to warnings about clauses and ventures. There had been warnings about caravans driving further and further into the wilds, only for villages and estates to be given back to the wilderness a mere season later. There had been whispers of the thinness of dwarrow.

And Bilbo had paid it no thought.

“There isn’t anywhere safe for your faunts.” Bilbo whispered, his mind flashing to passage upon passage his father had forced him to recite from the clan heads. There were dangers on the road, but there was no comfort in towns either. Low birth rate, high death rate. Being turned away at the gates. Food given to faunts, only for the faunts to be too sick to keep the meals down for long. “How many have been born outside the mountains?”

There was power in the land of one’s birth and for a people untethered? A people desperate and scrambling for scraps? Desperation could be written into the bones of children and Bilbo knew what that would look like. He amended contract. Desperation was his bread and the need for better times and better worlds, was his butter.

Toymaker gave him a sad smile. “Too many and not nearly enough.”

“The Arkenstone?” Bilbo asked, forcing himself not to think of what would have driven three near children to sign up for a quest along side old dwarrow who knew there was no other option.

“A last-ditch effort to gain what used to be a symbol for the right to rule. If our king has that in his hands, then he can command an army to help kill a dragon.” Toymaker admitted, his gaze fixed firmly on the table.

“But, a dragon.” Bilbo muttered, his fingers turning to claws in his hair. Belladonna had never made dragons out to be anything but prideful, greedy worms that rained down fire and death. And these fools wanted to steal from one.

“It is that or a mountain lost to orcs, goblins, and Mahal knows what else.” Toymaker stole the bottle out from in front of Bilbo, his face twisting into a sneer. “Azanulbizar. We already tried that path, and we lost too many. The war was long, and we gained nothing but debt and pain for that venture.”

Bilbo stared at what had previously been a serious but jolly dwarf. Now Toymaker looked worn and old, the scars on his knuckles standing out starkly with the grip he had on the bottle. Morbidly, Bilbo wondered how long it would take before the bottle snapped like a brittle flower stem.

“Erebor was once the crown jewel. The best of us all. It held the highest population of Dwarrow. Now, the exiled refugees that could not call upon family in other settlements, have landed in a colony that was never meant to handle the numbers she now has to support.” Toymaker breathed, a hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Ered Luin is dying.”

“How many?” Bilbo whispered, his thoughts heavy.

Toymaker gave a shattered smile. “We could fit into Hobbiton and still have room.”

There was a low keen and it took a moment for Bilbo to realize the sound had come from him. For all the years hobbits had settled in the Shire, the Wandering Years still weighed heavily on their thoughts. The Fell Winter had only compounded those worries. All faunts were taught to forage and hide. All hobbits knew to duck away from danger. All hobbits knew what was necessary to keep and what could be cast aside without concern. Heirlooms and mamthoms were for decoration and bragging rights, but all the Shire would cast them aside in a moment if it meant keeping faunts and elderly safe. Hobbits did not fight. They were not built for battle the way Dwarrow, Men, or Elves were, but all hobbits knew how to scatter into the winds and pick off stragglers. All hobbits knew how to make shelter and disappear into the wilds if necessary.

All hobbits knew what it would mean if a people could fit into Hobbiton and still have room.

“Erebor was built to be a fortress. There is hope that if we can reclaim it, there would be safety once again.” Toymaker concluded.

“The gold would certainly help.” Bilbo tried to squeak.

Toymaker gave a slight grin. “Aye, that it would.”

There was silence between them and Bilbo refused to look up at Toymaker. Prim couldn’t go with them, not just because she was underage, but a young girl on the road with thirteen men would have Bilbo flayed alive by her mother. Then there was the problem of Took contract. Bilbo had spent most of the early spring chasing down young foolish Tooks and attempting to dissuade them from leaving the Shire due to the highly dangerous contracts offered this past year.

If Bilbo sent these dwarrow to the Thain, Grandfather would give the contract away to some foolish hobbit who thought it a grand jaunt through the wilds. There really was no other choice but for Bilbo to place red ink to the contract and give away his name for this quest.

“You’re coming.” Toymaker sighed, his hands dropping to the table with a thump.

Bilbo groaned as he leaned back and rubbed his hands over his eyes for a moment. “You knew my parents. Would either of them say no to this?”

There was another long pause between them, and Bilbo looked to the dwarf as Toymaker shook his head and shoved the cork into the bottle. “Sign a Took contract. Please.” Toymaker begged his head bowed as he shoved the hat back onto his head. “Mahal, I’d feel better if you signed your Mother’s contract.”

Bilbo nodded once as he hauled himself up to his feet. He was going to have to alert Drogo. It wouldn’t do for the poor boy to find out he was temporary Master Baggins when the bounders knocked on his door in the morning telling him Otho had died.

(Oh Yavanna, please let Otho be dead in the morning. Bilbo wasn’t sure he could deal with Otho on top of all this insanity.)

Stepping out into the dining room again, Bilbo stumbled when he realized Gandalf had been forced into a hobbit sized chair on the other end of the room, opposite to where the remaining food sat on the table.

Personally, Bilbo rather thought the old Man deserved it.

“Might I inquire as to how many laws we might have broken over the course of the evening?” Master Balin broke in when it became clear neither Gandalf nor Bilbo were going for each others throats anymore.

Bilbo blinked at him for a long moment, having forgotten the audience littered around his dining room. “Well, that is to say…” Bilbo began, shame over his outburst colouring his cheeks, “I doubt any Hobbit would blame any of you dwarrow, not with Gandalf being here. He has an unfortunate habit of dragging up chaos and stealing away good Tooks in the middle of the night.”

“Your mother came quiet willingly with me.” Gandalf drawled as he took another gulp of wine.

Bilbo shot him a glare, but didn’t bother to grace the old meddler with a response before he switched his gaze back to Master Balin. “Luckily for you, Gandalf did send you to one of the more forgiving families. Tooks would have been best for offering an adventurous contract, but if anything, Baggins is just as well. The two clans deal with outsiders more often, you see, and we tend to relax the expectations of guest law.”

Master Balin nodded once. “Two more questions. First, _Master_ Baggins?”

Bilbo waved a hand before Master Balin could continue, settling for the yarns spun generations before to explain away the presence of a _court_ on Shire land. He didn’t have time to answer questions, not if his idea of how quickly the dwarrow wanted to leave in the morning, but it wouldn’t do to have more miscommunications and problems looming over his head. “Family Head. I hold the deed to the surrounding area, so I speak for this part of the Shire as well when dealing with Council business.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. Bilbo did hold the deeds and he did speak for part of Hobbition when sitting on the Thain's Council, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Anyone could be called Master, it was good manners (the rudeness of Men never ceased to amaze Bilbo. They were always so flabbergasted when Bilbo called the heads of contract and business, Master), but in the Shire there was a subtle difference in who _hobbits_ referred to as master.

(The Baggins were respectable, but that wasn’t that half of it. The Baggins were _respectable_ and the Master of the Baggins was so much _more._ )

Master Balin made a soft sound of understanding before he looked over to Gandalf with a small frown. “Are we taking you away from,” the dwarf paused, his fingers lacing together over his stomach as he seemed to rethink his statement.

Bilbo almost grinned. At least this dwarf had the good sense to think before he acted, not like a certain In-Betweener Bilbo knew. Still, he had an idea of what Master Balin was attempting to ask.

“To be fair,” Bilbo began, steadfastly ignoring the way Toymaker was subtly shaking his head behind Master Balin’s back. “there are somethings of great…”

Unfortunately, he didn’t manage to get any further, instead the door to Bag End flew open with a bang (it seemed to be becoming a pattern, Bilbo thought with no little amount of distaste, that someone interrupted him whenever he finally managed to straighten things out).

“Prim! Prim do slow down. I don’t understand what has gotten you in such a state, but I am sure Bilbo is just…”

Bilbo could hear Drogo trying to wrestle away from Prim, and he was half out of his chair and to the door of the dining room by the time Drogo had stopped dead in the middle of the hall. The poor boy rather looked as if Mrs. Proudfoot had slammed him in the face with a codfish.

It wasn’t a good experience, Bilbo knew that firsthand.

“Bilbo?” Drogo choked, his eyes widening as he took in the apprehensive dwarrow and the knife sticking out of Bilbo’s wall. “Prim said you might be going on an adventure?”

Gandalf thumped his staff against the ground with a great smile. “Ah, young Drogo! Mayhap you could convince your cousin to leave his stuffy books and maps.”

Just as Bilbo had bristled a short while ago, Drogo drew himself up with a short sputter. “Books? Maps? Stuffy?” He shrieked, his voice raising to near hysterics. Drogo spun away from the In-Betweener and pinned Bilbo with a wild look. “You wouldn’t, Bilbo. You wouldn’t.”

Bilbo understood the horror. A whole culture and court were hidden away in Bilbo’s shelves. Everything salvaged from before the Wandering Days and in the years since, had been recorded and stashed inside The Hill. It was nothing when compared to the duty of a Baggins and contract, but still, the importance was more then Gandalf had made it out to be. Bilbo might be willing to cast it aside for want of fair contract but he would never put it aside for an In-Betweener.

If Gandalf had been read into the secrets of this side of the Shire, his disrespect would never have stood. As it was, only Bilbo’s slight shake of his head was keeping Drogo from borrowing the impulsiveness of his sweetheart and screaming at the In-Betweener.

“Now, Drogo.” Bilbo tried to placate the boy. In retrospect, it made sense Prim would go running to her sweetheart when cornered. Thick as thieves those two were, and while Drogo would never give Prim a Took contract, the boy was a Baggins. If Bilbo were to leave, involving Drogo would certainly slow Bilbo down, or at least ensure he left with full word and contract haunting his steps.

Smart girl.

It also saved Bilbo the effort of summoning the boy himself. Convenient, that.

Drogo twitched, his head bowing as the boy seemed to gather what had happened. He had always been a smart faunt and the cunning that allowed him to run beside Brandybucks and Tooks up and down the paths of the Shire, helped him step forward with stubborn set to his shoulders and a wicked gleam in his eye. “Have you signed?”

For a moment, Bilbo simply stared at his heir. What kind of question was that? Had he signed? He was no boot-wearing, small-footed, hobbling idiot, thank you. Had he signed? Bilbo had been working at his father’s knee helping to amend contracts long before Drogo had been born. He would never be so stupid as to sign something he had not helped write himself. From the wince Drogo suddenly gave, Bilbo rather thought the boy had figured that out from Bilbo’s silence.

Sighing, Bilbo gestured for the boy to come over. “This is the contract. It will have to be amended for Shire standards, but there is a rough foundation.”

Master Thorin bristled, but surprisingly, it was Master Dwalin who stepped in. “My brother is a scholar. Might he help you?”

Somewhere in the back, Bilbo heard a dwarf snort and from the dry look Master Balin gave his brother, Bilbo gathered the dwarf was much more than a simple scholar.

“Contract holds the same weight as a honour bound oath given on a family braid and family beads.” Toymaker broke in when the two brothers had dissolved into a quick conversation in sign. “If you do not allow him to amend the contract, you insult not only his family name, but his craft. The Baggins Clan would not allow a Master to be anything less then the equivalent of yourself, Master Balin.”

Suddenly, all the dwarrow were looking at Bilbo in a new light.

Bilbo shoved the contract at Drogo without a word, ignoring his squawk. “Contract is sacred and all who sign Baggins Contract are bound to it.”

He was dangerously close to giving away Shire secrets, but that terrible thing had to be amended. Bilbo would not become the second Baggins ‘breaker in near a thousand years if he could help it. And, with how that contract was worded, breaking the contract was inevitable.

“Master Scholar, might I address some concerns in the study?” Drogo suddenly broke in absently, his brow furrowing as he flipped parts of the contract out and read further into the idiocy that was non-shire oath.

Master Balin paused, shooting Bilbo a concerned glance. Bilbo waved the concern away with a proud smile. Ignoring the fact Prim had dragged the poor boy into this mess, Drogo had settled into business quickly and without complaint. He would make a fine Master Baggins one day.

Although, ‘one day’ might be tomorrow if things moved any faster.

“After you, Master Balin.” Bilbo said brightly, waving a hand-out towards the study.

Master Balin nodded once before beckoning for little Master Ori to step forward. “My apprentice will sit with us.”

Ah, that explained some things.

“Of course. Drogo, if you don’t mind.” Bilbo gestured again towards the study, pausing at the door to shoot Prim with an unimpressed look. “You and I will be having words, Brandybuck. Go sit with Lobelia, she needs someone.”

Slipping into the study was easier than he expected, not that it was a chore to steer Drogo through the doorway, with his nose stuck in the contract. “Bilbo. This doesn’t make any sense.” Drogo muttered as he sunk into the chair at the desk. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. Half of these clauses are in a different language altogether and if you don’t know what’s there…” Drogo looked up, his eyes wide and cheeks pale. “Bilbo, it could kill you.”

Bilbo hummed quietly, ignoring the way Master Balin and Ori stiffened at the mention of foreign language. “Your suggestion?”

Drogo was already reaching for a pen. “Cull it all. There is a foundation, but since you haven’t signed, we can just rebuild the full contract. Most of these clauses need to be reordered and redefined.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see Ori puffing up in distress, his gaze flicking between Master Balin and the contract. “And then?” Bilbo questioned, eyeing the way Drogo was ready to put the pen to paper. “What will you do?”

Drogo must have sensed something in Bilbo’s tone because the boy suddenly sat back, the pen clicking against the desk in the quiet of the study. For a moment, no one spoke, although, Master Balin did have to put a hand on Ori’s shoulder to stop the boy from leaning closer. Drogo might have been a fully-fledged adult, but he was still Bilbo’s student. And while he might have been taking on clients of his own, there was still teaching moments Bilbo would press into his head.

Drogo turned in his chair. “I apologize. I did not mean to take your work and restructure it to fit my cousin’s benefit.” The boy grabbed the contract and placed it on the low table between the desk chair, and the chairs between the fireplace. “But this contract will not stand up to scrutiny in the Shire. Please allow me to work with you to ensure my cousin’s safety and that no one is inadvertently taken advantage of.”

Bilbo shared a small grin with Master Balin, the dwarf inclining his head to acknowledge the teaching moment Bilbo had taken with Drogo. “It should be noted, before we begin, that Drogo and I typically amend contract rather then build them ourselves. If you would prefer, we can negotiate points on the original contract, or we can scrap the contract and rebuild it from the bottom up.”

Master Balin inclined his head. “Might I ask you what the points of contention are?”

Bilbo and Drogo both pointed to the foldout that flipped out about three times. “Section 12.”

Master Balin leaned over the table to squint at the contract. “Ah. Yes. I can see where that might be a concern.”

Section 12 was one of two problems Bilbo had with the contract. _The Burglar, should he break law, be tried by the Company in the ways of their forefathers. The aforementioned trial shall be given in Khuzdul and the Burglar must defend his own actions without representation by the Company._

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow. A concern might be a bit of an understatement. Were dwarrow traveling with hobbits, they would be asked to follow Shire law, so the turn-around was not unexpected. However, he was apposed to the so-called trial stemming from a law system he did not know and a language he had no practice in. “I want it scraped or written that I shall be given fair representation in Western, with access to legal aid and an understanding of the courts and laws I am subjected to should I be tried.”

Drogo quickly wrote out the condition on a blank piece of parchment, even as he absently handed one over to Ori.

The second concern Bilbo had was the foreign language covering the length of the parchment. As Drogo had pointed out, if Bilbo signed without knowing what was written in the contract, he could be dead in a fortnight if he wasn’t careful.

Master Balin stared at the contract for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I believe,” he said slowly as he tugged the contract closer towards him, “we are going to be here for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we have 2800+ hits as of May 17! Best May 2-4 prezzy ever!  
> Anyway, Popcorn and Hazzardofacat, hope this makes you two have a better day!


	9. The History of Contracts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes head out from behind counter*  
> Sorry guys, I know this is late. I had a bit of a rough patch and I kept feeling like this chapter wasn't completely finished so it sat in my draft box for about a month.  
> I can't promise regular updates at the moment due to my sudden reemployment, but I can promise at least one update a month.  
> Stay safe everybody and good luck,  
> As always, have fun, enjoy and please dont shoot me.  
> -Lost

While going over the contract with Master Balin, Bilbo came to the sneaking suspicion that the contract he had been given was tailored for a dwarf, not a hobbit. Which, while the contract would have been acceptable to Men, it would not the pass scrutiny of a Baggins.

The fact Drogo was half pulling out his hair the further they marched through negotiations only told Bilbo how much the boy had grown in the past year he had taken on clients. He had caught most, if not all, of the same points Bilbo had, and in some places, offered better suggestions then Bilbo himself. Bilbo had to admit a certain level of pride for how well the boy handled himself.

Still, the wording of the contract was commendable, and Bilbo was grudgingly impressed at how well it protected the employer from the ‘burglar’. He was less impressed by how the wording could be twisted to take advantage of the employee. Considering he was being hired to _steal,_ even if it was to steal from a dragon, Bilbo wanted a guarantee he wouldn’t be hauled in front of a foreign court for theft.

Dealing with Men had taught hobbits much. The most important lesson was that both parties involved in the contract _had_ to be protected. There was no such thing as a foolproof contract, but the Baggins had become insistent on additional clauses and guarantees. No hobbit would ever be cheated or surprised in contract again, not if a Baggins drafted the oath.

The realization that the contract had not been written with a hobbit in mind, did not help reduce Bilbo’s ire with Gandalf and his unfortunate habit of withholding information until the last possible moment. In fact, it only heightened it. However, the confirmation of the contract not being written with a hobbit in mind, was answered by Ori of all people.

The poor boy needed a few years under his belt before he was to offer contract to outsiders. This thought was certainly compounded by the way he was shooting his Master glances of pure panic while transcribing the points Bilbo and Master Balin batted back and forth like a game of horseshoes. It wouldn’t do for him to be declared a breaker by accident. (Although, and this wasn’t entirely fair, maybe the dwarrow didn’t care for the consequences of a breaker the same way Hobbits did.)

Either way, after three hours they had a contract that would be accepted by the Shire and hopefully wouldn’t kill Bilbo on the road. There was of course, a certain margin of error that had to be accounted for and Bilbo had enough faith in both his own skills and Drogo, for that margin of error to be minimal. Besides, he had negotiated for the contract to be amended on the road, should the need arise.

For whatever reason, Master Balin had seemed relieved by that clause, enough that he had given a genial smile as he led Ori from the room, contentedly giving Bilbo time to speak to Drogo without eavesdroppers. Bilbo had no illusion that the old In-Betweener would not be lurking at the door, but there was not much he could do about him.

Although, there was also the other eavesdropper Bilbo would have to deal with. Hauling himself out of his chair, Bilbo waved Drogo to stay seated even as he meandered over to the study window and threw it open with a nonchalance born of long years catching errant Tooks outside of his kitchen, fingers sticky in pie crusts. In the eavesdropper’s favour, Prim hardly let out more than a squeak of surprise when Bilbo reached down and hauled her up over the windowsill and into the study. The Brandybuck was kind enough not to fight him, instead scrambling _into_ the study instead of running back to her father's halls.

Fool of a Took.

Drogo was on his feet before his lady love was through the window. “Prim!”

Bilbo shot the boy a slight glare. “I expected better.” He hissed to both his cousins. He wasn’t angry. Not truly, but their own imaginations would conjure up worse horrors then Bilbo could ever dish out. Disappointment was far harder to handle then anger after all. Prim nodded at the ground, her shoulders hunching inwards, the movement making her collar twist further in Bilbo's grasp.

“Did you leave Lobelia?” Bilbo shook her slightly, feeling rather as if he had found a stray puppy rather than a stubborn cousin.

“Lobelia?” Drogo broke in as he came to collect Prim from Bilbo's hold. “Why is Lobelia here? Did she steal your spoons again?”

Any other time, Bilbo would have been amused by Drogo’s concern, but Bilbo had spent three days pouring over Lobelia’s contract and he was still reeling from Otho’s betrayal against his kin. As it was, Prim had flinched slightly in Drogo’s arms and from the look on Drogo’s face, Prim’s reaction was enough to tell him something had gone wrong.

Bilbo rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. “Otho broke faith.”

Drogo pulled Prim a little closer. “How?”

The poor boy looked rather shell shocked if Bilbo was being honest and, in any other circumstances, Bilbo might have been concerned how quickly Drogo was willing to assume Otho was guilty.

“He bound Lobelia twice by blood and token, under two conflicting contracts and isolated her. All without her knowledge.” Bilbo said shortly, his temper flaring up at the mere reminder of Otho's arrogance.

It was Prim who nailed the coffin closed. “She's pregnant.”

Drogo puffed up with indignation. “Otho can’t do that!”

“Hence why he is a ‘breaker.” Bilbo replied, finally sinking back down into his father's armchair, half wondering if it was worth it to throw another log on the low embers in the hearth.

Prim twisted out of Drogo's hold, her face twisting up into fury as she glared between her friend and her cousin. “And that’s why Bilbo can’t go on the adventure! Otho needs to be tried and Bilbo has to deal with the public disgracing of his section of the clan and…”

Drogo was already shaking his head. “Prim. No.”

Bilbo leaned further back in his chair. Technically, Drogo should not be admitting any Baggins secrets to Prim before the young lady had a ring on her finger and wedding bells behind them. However, Bilbo had never been one for overburdening propriety and besides, one would have to be a special sort of idiot not to see wedding bells tolling over their heads in the future.

(Ok, so maybe Bilbo was a bit of a romantic. When one paused to think about the great romance and scandal that was his parents’ adult lives, the conclusion was not hard to reach. There was also the point to consider that while Drogo and Prim were young, the boy was his heir and well, Bag End had been built with a whole gaggle of faunts in mind. That wild pack of faunts might not have been Belladonna's or Bilbo's, but they might as well be Drogo's.)

Every Baggins knew Breakers were dealt with quickly and discreetly. If the contract didn’t get the breaker first, then it was the job of the Shire (in reality, no one _wanted_ the Shire herself to react, so the Bounder's quietly took the job) to discreetly dispose of the breaker. Men and even Dwarrow, also seemed to have the distressing ability to recognize unnatural madness forming in the minds of their neighbors, and since broken contract drove breakers mad…

Hobbits were light on their feet, shifty-eyed, and had remarkable sticky fingers (Lobelia and Bilbo's spoons being one good example of reoccurring theft between two households). It was a simple matter to make a breaker simply disappear long before contract drove the breaker to a painful death.

Men might have called it murder.

The Shire called it mercy.

Hobbits had spent countless generations on the road prior to the settling of the Shire. They had been chased from towns, left in the dirt to rot, and had lost more then just a history to the passage of time. For all that the Shire was a bustling community, it was also the only location in all of Arda that held hobbits.

There was no other strong hold.

No other safe haven.

If the Shire fell, so to would the hobbits.

Contract kept their borders safe, but Men had always been more suspicious of anything classified as magical. It was safer (and kinder) to have a breaker dealt with quietly, allowing them to pass with both some form of dignity and sanity rather then allowing the pull of the contract to utterly destroy and raze the breaker to the ground.

There was also less collateral damage.

“Otho will be dead by morning.” Drogo explained when Prim hissed at him in betrayal.

Over her head, Bilbo gave Drogo a quick nod. If contract didn’t get Otho, then the Thain would certainly have the Bounders discreetly deal with the problem. Either way, Otho would not survive to see the sunrise.

For a moment, Prim seemed torn, and Bilbo didn’t miss how Drogo tensed. This was the darker side of the Baggins clan. No matter how flippant Bilbo seemed to be over Otho’s reveal as a breaker, the declaration was not something done lightly. As head of the clan, it was Bilbo’s responsibility to declare every single breaker.

When Bilbo passed the mantle, the responsibility would pass to Drogo. Prim would make an excellent Lady, but the union would not work if she could not (would not) understand and accept both the goodness of the Baggins Contract and the necessary evil.

“This, this is not a decision made lightly. Is it?” Prim eventually asked, her gaze sliding to Bilbo.

Bilbo shook his head. No, declaring someone a breaker was not a decision made lightly and Bilbo feared the day where the declaration made him more tired then concerned. As head of the clan, it was his job to amend and fix contract. He was the last stop before the declaration of broken contract. And, every time Bilbo had to declare a breaker, there was something behind his ribs that seemed to tear just a little bit more.

No, declaring a breaker was never an easy decision.

Nor could it be easy for Prim to accept that not only did Bilbo declare Otho a breaker, but that Drogo wholeheartedly accepted and approved of what she now knew would be Otho’s death sentence. Yavanna knew Belladonna had not accepted with grace when Bugno had revealed the truth.

“I hope we have your discretion in this matter.” Bilbo reminded the Brandybuck, one hand falling onto her shoulder to give a gentle squeeze.

For a moment, the study was quiet before Prim gave a slow nod, her gaze never leaving Bilbo’s face. “I am a Took. I know what responsibility means.” She whispered harshly, her anger from earlier still ruddy on her cheeks.

Bilbo gave her a soft smile. “That doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Prim pulled away from his grasp, heaving in a deep breath as she looked away. “I’m going home. Since I cannot convince you to stop this foolishness.”

It wasn’t until after the girl was out of the study and Bilbo heard the front door slam shut that he turned and took in Drogo. The poor boy still looked as if Mrs. Proudfoot had hit him with a codfish and Bilbo almost winced. “She’ll come around.”

Drogo shot him a wary look. “But what if she doesn’t?”

Bilbo gave the boy a slight shrug. “Then she doesn’t.”

Either Prim came around and settled with Drogo or she did not. There was no in-between. Besides, she had at least another two years before she could accept any courting or proposals. There was time.

They had time.

“Now,” Bilbo said cheerfully as he went to grab his father’s maps off the top shelf of his bookshelf, “we are to be going to the lonely mountain. Let us see if there are any contracts I should be made aware about.”

Drogo gave a muffled choking sound, sufficiently distracted from the lovely problem that had just left Bilbo’s study. “I doubt there would be anything that far from the Shire…”

Both Drogo and Bilbo paused when the map was fully unfolded across the table. The map was not accurate as to recent landmarks or even town names, but it was a Baggins map, holding all the points of contract that would affect travelers (namely Tooks) going outside the Shire. Bugno had spent a significant part of Bilbo’s childhood updating and correcting which contracts were still valid, even amending them if possible.

It had been years since Bilbo had unfolded the entirety of the map and quiet suddenly, he remembered why he had never dealt with the eastern half of the map.

“Well…” Drogo trailed off as he took in the red warning on the eastern half of the map. “That is concerning.”

Bilbo didn’t bother to grace that with an answer, instead he grabbed down the accompanying book of contracts. This book was ancient, rebound and rewritten more times then Bilbo cared to count, however, it was the only book that held all the names and dates of the contracts referenced on the map.

It also was one of the only places oaths prior to the Wandering Years were recorded.

“Let’s hope this is a new problem.” Bilbo muttered, not even attempting to be cheerful about the situation.

The warning was not in either his or Bugno’s hand and the pit in Bilbo’s stomach was steadily growing larger the further back in the book he had to flip.

Drogo slipped down heavily into a chair. “You said there was a dragon involved?”

Bilbo flipped through another chapter.

“And Mirkwood used to be called Greenwood right?”

Bilbo was not liking where this was going. He flipped to the next chapter.

“And broken oaths cause _problems._ ”

Bilbo skipped to the end of the book.

“What could be bad enough to summon a dragon?”

Bilbo twitched, flipping the book around so that Drogo could see the final page next to the warning on the map. “Drogo. We don’t know that a dragon was summoned by a broken contract.”

Drogo waved a hand at the map, his cheeks pale. “Bilbo, the big and underlined words in red say ‘Oath Breaker’.”

Bilbo looked down to the map and the book. Unfortunately, Drogo was correct. The area just northwest of Erebor and northeast of Greenwood declared oathbreaker, however there was no indication of if the breaker was Man, Elf, or Dwarf.

Or Yavanna forbid, hobbit.

“What was the contract?” Drogo asked, already leaning over to look at the book.

Bilbo sank down into his chair, absently wishing his pipe were at hand. There were old contracts and oaths the Baggins clan simply did not refer to anymore, either due to the age of the promise or because the debt had been fulfilled long ago. Bilbo, in all his years as Master, had only ever had to look in this book a handful of times. Never had he had cause to skip into the oaths before the founding of the Shire.

In all honesty, Bilbo didn’t think anyone had looked into the back end of the book for decades, if not centuries, aside from the occasional rebinding.

Drogo tilted his head and squinted at the page. “Is that in Western?”

Bilbo heaved in a breath. “No.”

“Oh.” Drogo poked at the page as if his prodding would force it to become legible. “Can you read it?”

Considering Bilbo could read Western, several elvish dialects, and was a fair hand at several different older versions of Western, Drogo’s question was a fair one.

“No.”

“Oh.” Drogo said again, completely useless in the face of Bilbo’s rising panic. “Do we have it written anywhere else?”

Bilbo’s mind was already spinning, his thoughts racing too fast for him to explain. “All things considered,” Bilbo mused quietly as he stood and bolted out of the study towards his second pantry turned archive, “the dragon is a recent addition to the mountain.”

Somewhere behind him, Bilbo could hear Drogo scrambling to catch up, but Bilbo didn’t bother to keep track of the boy. The dragon had happened near a 150 years ago, but the warning was far older. Drogo was right to wonder what oath was broken to warrant a dragon crashing into the lonely mountain, but in truth, they didn’t need to know _what_ had happened, he only needed to know _when._

A broken contract was a broken contract and the hobbits would not still be alive if they had been found to be the ‘breaker. So, when was the last time any hobbit had been that far East?

Practically throwing himself over the first row of boxes, Bilbo dug his way through to the back end of the pantry, finger trailing along the shelves as he counted further through the lineage of Masters.

Hobbits were infamous for tracking family lines, and the Baggins were the most documented. The name of the fae husband of the first Master Baggins had been long lost to history. Too much had been lost to the Wandering, but Bilbo did not need _that_ information. What he needed was the timeline.

The Wandering had taken near a thousand years in total, from the first migration to the last tribe settling in the Shire. Contract had been what kept hobbits safe as they traveled but it had been near two thousand years since the beginning of the Wandering. Three thousand years this contract may have festered in the East.

Bilbo was not looking forward to attempting to amend that piece of parchment. A year long broken oath was difficult enough, three thousand years total would be almost impossible.

Half of Bilbo's responsibility when he was learning by his father's knee, was understanding that a broken contract could not always be fixed but the affects could be reduced. Realistically, while knowing _what_ the contract’s stipulations were could be helpful, it wasn’t necessary. What was important was the why. Hobbits hadn’t been to the East since the Wanderings. Belladonna had been by far the most adventurous and the furthest she had been was Rivendell.

The contract was old enough, it was in a dialect of hobbitsh Bilbo hadn’t seen before. When those two things were put together, well, it told Bilbo one important thing.

The contract was made before the Wandering.

At this point, it would be impossible to tell who held the other half of the contract. A dragon in the mountain, a shroud of darkness over Greenwood, tales of famine and poverty for the Men of the East. Any one of them could have been the holder and unfortunately, at this point, it hardly mattered. The broken oath had seeped into the ground and held fast to all who stood by their stations.

Reaching above his head, Bilbo pulled down the book that, aside from the bi-monthly dusting, Bilbo had never touched during his time as Master. The book was old, old enough that Bilbo suspected the only reason it was not a pile of dust on his shelf was the faith spark of _other_ that drifted across the pages, keeping it as pristine as the day it had been bound.

A fae book, Bugno had told Bilbo, a fae book with all the trappings of contract and oath. None could read it, the dialect long since lost, but Bilbo didn’t have to read it. The symbol for a breaker, had remained the same since the first contract had been thrown aside. A jagged ‘X’ marked on the right-hand side of the paper, simple and impossible to miss.

Bilbo opened the book, ignored the sparks of _other_ that dashed across his fingers, and stared down at the first contract any Baggins had ever given. Considering the mark of a broken contract took up most of the page, Bilbo didn’t think he was going to find any good news.

Drogo leaned over his shoulder. “Is that the contract?”

Bilbo tilted the page a little more into the light from the hall. “Was,” he corrected, “it was the contract.”

Drogo winced, his gaze flicking towards the revelry that echoed from the dinning room. “You already signed the contract, there is not much I can…”

“No.” Bilbo was already shaking his head. He had signed, for better or for worse. He and Drogo had managed to work in a Took contract to length of the dwarrow contract and Bilbo could not find it in himself to regret signing. He had wanted out of this smial, out of this land, out of this mantel, for longer then Drogo had been alive.

Finding a broken contract waiting for amendment in the East was not going to make him regret a damned thing.

“As Master Baggins, it is my responsibility to amend contracts.” Bilbo said, snapping the book shut with a somewhat defeated thud. “I had hoped to give you some more time before the responsibility was laid at your feet but,”

“You have to go to the East.” Drogo broke in, lines of tension scoring across his brow. “You have to go. Its not right to leave this big of a contract alone, now that we know there’s a problem, and, well,” Drogo hesitated, his head ducking down a bit. “I’m not that good at this sort of thing.”

The book was tucked away, and Bilbo was dragging Drogo into his arms before he could think the action through. “Oh, you foolish boy,” Bilbo whispered into Drogo’s curls, “you foolish, foolish boy. I could not have a better heir, you have made me and your father so proud.”

If Bilbo heard an almost silent sniffle, well, it must have been the evening breeze scuttling through Bag End.

“We have to speak to Lobelia.” Bilbo whispered when it seemed Drogo’s grip on his waistcoat was released ever so slightly. “I doubt I will be back in time to see the babe be born and even if she will not sign a contract, she has to be kept safe.”

Drogo nodded into his shoulder and Bilbo’s heart ached as he untangled the boy from his hold. Drogo was a sweet child, an adult by age but a child in that he still sought comfort from his cousins. It wasn’t fair for Bilbo to be forcing this responsibility onto the boy but needs must.

He just hoped Drogo would forgive him when the dust was settled.

The walk to Bilbo’s room was quiet and had Bilbo thanking Yavanna for the few blessed moments of silence. The fact the door creaked open under Bilbo’s hand had Bilbo pausing in the doorway. He had given Lobelia his room precisely because it had a lock. The fact the room was unlocked was enough to make Bilbo flounder.

Lobelia was in a smial with sixteen men, not that she’d know Drogo was there, and the door was unlocked. Bilbo had no doubt Gandalf would vouch for the character of the Dwarrow gracing Bag End, but there had been ale and plenty of it. With all of that added together, the door should have been locked. Bilbo walked into his room, motioning for Drogo to stand in the hall. There shouldn’t be any problems but with the way his day had been going…

“Primula Brandybuck! You had better be holding Mistress Belladonna’s traveling cloak or we will be having words young lady!”

Bilbo blinked, taking in the fact Lobelia was holding a backpack and stuffing what looked to be Bilbo’s gardening clothes and a bundle of winter gear. “What are you doing?” Bilbo sputtered, his gaze landing on the slight mess that was his wardrobe.

The bag dropped onto the bed, Lobelia’s hand flying over to the frying pan that was laid out on the vanity. “Bilbo Baggins! Is that anyway to talk to your delightful cousin, who just so happens to be packing your things for a long journey?” Lobelia sputtered, her cheeks colouring slightly.

“What?” Bilbo stammered, eventually stumbling towards his bed when it appeared the scene wasn’t about to change.

Lobelia turned her gaze back to the backpack, even as she shoved in what appeared to be Bilbo’s mending kit and a spare hunting knife. “You Baggins might be grand at making contract, but it is us Sackvilles that always made the kits for those foolish Tooks. I might not have been of age the last time I put together a traveling kit, but it is not so hard as most make it out to be.”

Bilbo flashed a look towards Drogo, but the poor boy appeared even more flummoxed then Bilbo felt.

The bedroll that had always graced the top of Bilbo’s wardrobe was promptly tied to the side of the backpack. “Young Miss Brandybuck mentioned you are heading off into the wilds like your fool of a mother,” Lobelia sniffed, her hands stilling in the middle of the clutter atop Bilbo’s bed, “I don’t doubt there is an excellent reason, but it still stands that if you leave there will need to be a new Master Baggins.”

Drogo made a strangled sound over Bilbo’s shoulder, but Lobelia appeared not to notice.

“It is no secret either that Drogo is to be the next Master, and The Hill must always be occupied by a Baggins. Since Young Miss Brandybuck is far too young to marry, I suggest I remain here with Drogo to chaperone the two lovebirds.”

If it weren’t for the slight tremor to Lobelia’s hands, Bilbo might have burst out laughing at the sudden terror that appeared on Drogo’s face. As it was, Bilbo leaned forward. “Will you sign contract?” He asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Lobelia nodded once, her hands stilling as she gripped Belladonna’s handmade quilt.

“Well Master Baggins, draw up the contract.” Bilbo threw over his shoulder, watching in quiet mirth as Drogo paused, his eyes widening. “I will go grab my walking coat. My mother’s cloak is far to slender for my frame.”

Lobelia seemed to release her bated breath all at once, her shoulders slumping down as she sat down on the bed with a heavy thump. “Thank you, Bilbo. Thank you.”

Bilbo placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment before he reached into his chest of drawers for his underthings, not wanting Lobelia to have to pack those away for him. “Don’t thank me yet, I’m not the one staying here to mind a Baggins and a foolhardy Took.”

Lobelia turned to look at him with a trembling smile beginning to grace her features. “Yes, well, should your Took Contract fail you, I had better be named the recipient of those silver spoons.”

There really wasn’t much else Bilbo could do in the face of such a remark, aside from throw his head back, and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten asked a couple times about what I meant by 'the dwarrow of the blue mountains can fit into Hobbiton', and the honest answer is Hobbiton is basically a village. It's one third of the Shire according to the maps. I ran the numbers (all of it was rough guesstimate from a number of forums and posts I've read) and the amount of dwarrow that live permanently in the Blue Mountains could fit comfortably into a small village and still have room.  
> For an equivalent, its like saying there was a natural disaster so bad, it made the permanent population of Toronto (not including the GTA) fit into two to three Toronto city blocks.  
> This is a bit of an exaggeration but you get the picture.  
> Anyway, I hope that clears some things up.  
> As always, have fun and leave a comment or kudos below,  
> Lost


	10. The Passing of a Mantel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everybody!  
> Here's a brand new chapter, all shiny and ready to be read! Hope everybody is staying safe.  
> As always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me,  
> -Lost  
> Edit: On August 1st, 2020 I went back and edited some typos that had been commented upon. No new chapter yet, sorry guys

“How did you even have time for this?” Bilbo muttered to Lobelia as he stared through his study window at the spectacle his front yard had become.

At some point in the night, Lobelia must have gone out and contacted at least half the Hill and told them all to arrive at this ungodly hour in the morning. How anyone had managed to drag in a handful of benches without Bilbo noticing was beyond him. That wasn’t even to mention it was hardly first breakfast and it looked like most of Bagshot Row, let alone the Hill had made an appearance. And to think, this had all been managed without waking Bilbo or his guests.

“You are certainly not leaving Drogo without some form of ceremony. What would the Men think of a young lad like him taking up the mantel without any markings?” Lobelia sniffed in disdain; her arms folded protectively over her stomach as she stared out at the chattering hobbits lining Bilbo's front yard. “Besides, at least if there are witnesses aside from your Gamgees then I shan’t be accused of knocking you off and burying you under the compost pile.”

Ah, there was the Lobelia Bilbo knew and loved. Ever so kind and forgiving.

“I also suspect I might be able to convince Jenny Waterrow to give up the last of her peach jam recipe. It has to be something she does during the canning, I’ve tried everything else.”

Bilbo threw his hands up in the air and shook his head as he marched his way back to the kitchen. “I do hope you haven’t forgotten about Drogo. He does need to make an appearance.”

Had Bilbo been thinking further then the outrageous display in his yard, he would have given thought to the fact there were thirteen dwarrow and one In-Betweener who would soon be awake and ready for first breakfast. As it was, the fact there were three dwarrow already in the kitchen, raiding his pantry, was a bit of a surprise.

Lobelia, in a fashion typical to a Sackville, gave a loud shriek even as she bustled into the kitchen and all but threw the dwarf out of the pantry. “I'll not have a guest cooking in my smial, Master Dwarf. You sit right there and wait your turn or there will be no first breakfast for you!”

“Your smial?” Bilbo said mildly, his eyebrow raising even as all three dwarrow sheepishly took their seats. “I don’t remember signing the deed over to you last night.”

Lobelia took the opportunity to whack his knuckles with the flat of her spoon as she walked by. “Temporarily my smial.” She corrected with a smirk. “Drogo is hardly old enough to manage this place on his own.”

Leaning back in his seat, Bilbo had to fight a smile. Good old proud Lobelia. Efficient to a fault and a force to reckon with when worked up to a frothing anger. He had been up half the night, sorting through papers and contracts in an attempt to smooth the transition of Master to Drogo, never mind how temporary the appointment may be.

In the end, long after even the most rambunctious dwarf had succumbed to Shire ale, Bilbo had all but collapsed onto the bed roll he had to wrestle out from Lobelia's clever knots. For the first time in his memory, all the guestrooms had been filled, leaving Bilbo to settle for the floor of the master bedroom. It was lucky both Lobelia and Bilbo were early risers or the morning would have been far too awkward a moment to fathom.

“Do you have the mantle?” Lobelia suddenly asked, the kettle whistling heavily as she passed out the morning china.

Bilbo pulled his cup close as a force of habit, wary of letting Lobelia kill him through a hefty dosing of sugar and milk. “What do you take me for?” Bilbo grumbled as he dunked a teabag into his empty cup. “An ill prepared Chubb? I’ve had the boy's mantel ready since his 25th birthday.”

“Mantle?” Asked a sleep heavy voice from the doorway. “What's this about a mantle?”

The kettle dropped the last two inches onto the table with a heavy thump, spraying a fine mist of boiling water into the air. “Oh, you’re worse than the Bounders. Sneaking up on poor unsuspecting hobbits.” Lobelia shrieked as she scrambled about for a tea towel to mop up the mess.

Bilbo wisely prepped his tea before dodging towards the dwarrow standing in his doorway. “Its not something of great importance. Simply, there are some responsibilities that require a Baggins and it would not do for me to run off without passing over my duty to my heir.” Bilbo explained as he warmed his hands on his cup. It would not do to make the dwarrow feel as if they were taking away a lord or some such nonsense.

A Baggins is a Baggins, no more and no less. Lords and ladies, kings and queens were for Tall Folk, not for those of the Shire, thank you very much. No matter that Drogo would be inheriting an estate and the wellbeing of all the tenants who called it home.

From the looks of things, the dwarrow had just rolled out of bed, their clothes rumpled and their hair in quiet a state. Poor Kili seemed to have somehow twisted his hair up into an impressive clump at the base of his skull, and that wasn’t to mention how Master Nori had one hand pressed against his temple, the points of his braids drooping around his ears and chin.

“There is a small gaggle of hobbits outside the door,” Bilbo explained delicately, unsure if it was appropriate to mention the general unkempt state of the group before him.

“Before first breakfast?”

Bilbo spun around to see the third body slumped at his table struggling to sit up, a mop of a hat held in hand. Well, that explained things at least, Toymaker would certainly know the rules observed in the Shire.

Bilbo grimaced slightly. “Well, you all had mentioned you wanted an early start?”

Toymaker rubbed at his eyes, his hat slumping down as he placed it on his brow. “But before first breakfast?”

Lobelia dropped a platter of drop scones onto the table. “There’s your first breakfast.” She scowled, her eyes darting to Bilbo for help.

“This is a bit unprecedented, I know. But needs must and all.” Bilbo broke in smoothly, reaching to grab a scone before he snuck by the dwarrow loitering in the doorway. “Pardon me. You are, of course invited to watch Drogo receiving the mantle, but it is not mandatory. There will be food either way.” Bilbo told the group when he saw Master Oakensheild and Dwalin staring blurrily at him.

“Of course, Master Boggins!” Kili piped up as he dived for a scene.

“It's Master Baggins, not Boggins!” Lobelia squealed, her wooden spoon coming down to whack Kili's fingers. “And do wash those paws. I don’t know how faunts could possibly get so dirty this quickly, but it will not stand in this kitchen!”

Bilbo chuckled quietly as he slipped into the study, his own hands aching in sympathy as he heard Kili whine. A wooden spoon was not Lobelia's typical weapon of choice, but may Yavanna help whatever fool bothered a hobbit in the kitchen.

Still, pausing in the center of the study, Bilbo was almost washed away by nostalgia. Bilbo had not been Master long before he had started to create the mantle of his heir. Bungo had died before Bilbo's had been completed and Bilbo had refused to be the second Master in a row to hand down an incomplete mantle.

To anyone other than a Baggins, the mantle was little more than decoration. But at some point, the Men of Bree had come to expect _every_ Baggins to wear a mantle, creating the need for any Baggins who dealt in contract to embroider two overlapping black ‘x's’ into the corner of their collars, forming what almost looked to be a star. It had become something of a calling card, and every few seasons there were found to be Men mimicking the stitches and calling themselves Contractors.

The Bounders had always dealt with those profane actions rather quickly.

But the real mantle was something much bigger, something much more sacred. A white strip of fabric, two thumb widths wide, that when completed was long enough to drape down from either side of the Master's neck, laying comfortably at mid-thigh. Almost every spare section of fabric was embroidered and no two mantles were alike. And aside from stories, Bilbo had no idea what mantles before Bungo would have looked like, each mantle having been buried or burned with the previous clan head.

Bungo's had been accented in blues and golds, filling the mantle with beautiful waves and most days seemed oddly reminiscent of the Brandywine. Between the waves was stitched a simple reminder _Be Honest and Be Kind._

Bilbo's, in comparison, was rather plain. A simple white cloth with the Baggin's X on both ends, bracketing in a simple reminder of _Truth and…_

To this day, Bilbo still didn’t know what Bungo had been attempting to leave as a legacy. The Fell Winter had been the perfect opportunity for Bungo to begin the pattern, often kicking Bilbo out of the main room, wanting the mantle to be a surprise for the spring. When the snow had piled too high and the realization the winter was _too cold_ and _too long_ settled in, Bilbo's mantle had been pushed aside for more important matters like defending the Shire and Bungo's failing health.

When Bungo had finally slipped away and Bilbo had been deemed able to stand long enough to accept the mantle, the unfinished cloth had been seen as an ill omen. An unfinished mantle, a faunt for a clan head, and too many contracts in need of review. The first year had been difficult and Bilbo's mantle had been shoved to the back of his wardrobe never to be pulled out again.

Drogo's mantle was something more stylized and on Bilbo's bad days, when the silence of Bag End seemed to echo, he wondered if he hadn’t given Drogo something of a curse. The mantle was meant to be a reminder, a reminder stitched into fabric by the previous Head, a collection of all their errors and accomplishments. A sum of the wishes they had made throughout their career.

For Bungo, he had started as a Master with the reminder to be honest and to be kind. Bilbo had been given truth. Drogo was about to be given something more. _Responsibility and Loyalty._ The words were almost hidden by the abundance of aster, daffodils, Queen Ann's Lace, and snapdragons that wound up the foliage of the mantle, impressing the need for patience, chivalry, sanctuary, and strength, onto Drogo's young shoulders.

It was not a kindness, what Bilbo had done. Drogo's mantle would be heavy with the weight of both Bilbo's expectations and the stares of the clan. It would weigh on him and push Drogo to either greater heights or terrible lows. Mantles, according to tradition, had been known to break Masters, to wear them down under the values and morals of their forefathers.

Yavanna knew Bilbo had almost crumbled under the weight.

No, Bilbo had not created Drogo's mantle out of kindness. Instead, Bilbo had created the mantle over the course of several long years, often stitching by flickering candles and pricked fingers. He had created it in those early days when Belladonna had been falling asleep at her late husband's desk, two cold tea cups beside her elbow, the ledgers open to show incompressible numbers and debts.

He had stitched in the need for patience when his favour box was empty but for the spider-webs. Chivalry when the offers for courting had appeared at his mailbox and too young girls were trying to play grownup as their parents attempted to foist themselves onto Bilbo's good graces. Sanctuary for the nights where signees came knocking at an unholy hour, desperate for the relief only an amendment could bring. And strength, strength to declare a breaker and strength to condemn even a good man to a broken oath. The responsibility and loyalty almost spoke for themselves. There was a duty to the clan, to the Shire, to oneself, but there was also loyalty. And sometimes loyalty and responsibility were not the same thing.

Bilbo could at least hope Drogo knew which one to follow in the event the two conflicted.

Bilbo certainly didn’t.

“They're waiting.”

“He's so young, Lobelia. Can I do this to him?” Bilbo asked without turning, his hand grasped around the mantle. He didn’t remember retrieving it from the hiding place on the top shelf, and honestly, he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or not.

There was a soft hum from the doorway. “You were younger.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Two hands slipped around his middle and Lobelia's forehead thumped gently against his shoulder. When they had both been faunts, before the Fell Winter and before Bilbo had been scooped up to stand beside his father and _learn,_ he and Lobelia had a tentative friendship. Somewhere in the years that had passed, that easy friendship had been thrown to the wayside, hidden under thefts and vitriol at the market.

He didn’t like Lobelia, hadn’t for a long time, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect her.

“Is Drogo the sort of man to trap a girl in a contract on her wedding day? Is he the kind to pass over those in need? To ignore his duty and forsake his clan?” Lobelia whispered into his shoulder like she had all those years ago when the fact they weren’t family and therefore had no need to be _kind,_ was enough to make them want to play together in the fields.

Bilbo remained silent, the mantle scratching at the pads of his fingers.

“Is he the kind of person you would declare as a breaker?”

Bilbo heaved in a breath. “I’ve been wrong before.”

“And at some point in the future, you will be wrong again. But you are not wrong about this.” Lobelia reassured him, her arms slipping away from his waist. “Otho hadn’t liked him, and that is a good enough character reference for me to be assured Drogo will do his best to ensure both my safety and..” her hand fell to her stomach and Bilbo turned to watch her face twist into grief.

“Lobelia,” Bilbo whispered, one hand coming up to offer comfort.

The woman ducked away from the movement. “Oh Bilbo, your tea has gone cold.”

The moment shattered, dropping like pointed shards into the carpet. “Has it been that long?” Bilbo asked with a jolt, already halfway to the door. “I hadn’t meant to...”

Lobelia's hand at his wrist halted him before he could leave the study. “You're going to need this.” She said, her gaze something fierce and apologetic all at once as she stepped forward and draped his mantle over his head.

For all that the mantle weighed less than his waistcoat, it felt all the heavier for every uncompleted stitch.

This was supposed to be a joyous occasion, a ceremony to transfer the mantle and allow Bilbo to fade into retirement. Instead, Bilbo was going off on a harebrained journey to steal a rock from a dragon that was currently lazing about in the territory that Bilbo suspected to be one of the first contracts made by a Baggins.

He honestly wasn’t sure which was better, retirement or theft. To be fair, he wasn’t even retiring, he was taking the Baggins amendments all the way to the lonely mountain. His father would be appalled Bilbo had even thought to leave the Shire and the safety the land provided. His mother would have kicked him out the door. Now there was a thought, Lobelia and Belladonna, standing side by side, throwing him out of his own doorway. The two of them would have gotten on like a smial on fire, if they would have been able to get past the old Sackville/Took rivalry.

“Bilbo.” Lobelia coaxed. “Its time.”

“Right.” Bilbo coughed, striding towards his own front door. Drogo had better be standing outside waiting or this ‘joyous' occasion was about to get awkward quickly.

Opening the door, Bilbo shielded his eyes from the morning sun and almost fled directly back into the house. All of The Hill had to have been in attendance. Baggins clansmen cluttering up his garden from fence post to fence post. The sea of familiar faces only broken by the shuffling dwarrow hovering in the back. The last time Bilbo had done this, he had been standing in front of a freshly dug grave and supported by his elbows by a ranger.

At least this time there was no snow.

“I am sure there have been several rumours flying about this fine morning.” Bilbo called out, forcing himself to remain calm as the shuffling stilled and his clan turned to face him as one. “Let me put some of those rumours to rest.”

On his bottom step, Drogo turned to stare at him with such an expression of grateful awe, Bilbo nearly turned tail and run. He was not some being able to snap his fingers and put the world to rights, no matter how much his people swore he was a miracle worker with contracts. (Lobelia was one such mistake. Thrice bound and kidnapped away to her own marriage bed and home. _Bilbo had failed her._ )

Still, Yavanna knew a hobbit could sniff out the tiniest speck of dust out of place and spin a yarn that the whole smial was about to collapse on some poor old woman's head. For all Bilbo knew, his fellow hobbits had been convinced Bilbo had _died_ the night before.

Settling down on his bench, Bilbo ignored the ghost of his mother who shrieked about him striking a match on the corner of the armrest and fumbled for his pipe. He had to calm his nerves somehow and the Valar knew the Thain distracted and redirected enough questions using this very method over the course of his long career.

“It seems my services have been requested just past Rivendell and these fine dwarrow have offered to escort me to the Last Homely House and beyond while I negotiate a proper contract with the client.” Bilbo explained rather quickly, sweeping a hand towards the dwarrow that had somehow snuck past his study while he was otherwise preoccupied. “Drogo here, has volunteered to step into his mantle early, taking this period as a test run. Business will continue as usual and there is no need to be concerned about previous contracts as they will continue to be honoured.” Bilbo took a breath, puffing on his pipe as his words were repeated and speculated upon in the audience.

In the far back, Bilbo could see the dwarrow relaxing as his words filtered through the crowd. Honestly, he would have been insulted if his nerves weren’t so overtaxed. What did they think he was going to do? Destroy his reputation and the reputation of both the Hill and Underhill by admitting he had signed on as a burglar of all things? The Green Lady make him rot where he stood, his forefathers would be clawing at his throat if he cut the Baggins reputation to pieces so thoroughly.

“Are there any objections?”

The question was more of a courtesy then anything else. Unless there was some wild accusation made against Drogo, there wasn’t much the clan could do other then peacefully accept Drogo as the (hopefully) temporary Master. Still, hobbits in general seemed to fall into line better when there seemed to be some form of choice.

After waiting a few more moments, Bilbo set aside his pipe and beckoned Drogo onto the front step beside him. Hobbits had very few traditions and the Baggins had always felt the appearance of a mantle was enough to show the transition from heir to master, but Bilbo had always had a flare for dramatics.

(From his seat, Drogo's father hid a small grin as he pressed his lips against the curls of his darling wife's hair. Of all the hobbits in attendance, he was one of the few who did not see Belladonna's ghost in Bilbo's mischievous grin as Drogo grew closer. Instead, he saw Bungo, deft-fingered Bungo who had planned the most outlandish coming of age ceremony for Bilbo when the boy had been born.)

(It was a pity Bungo had died so young.)

Drogo drew to a stop a step below Bilbo, his back to the crowd and his eyes a bit too wild for Bilbo's taste. Ever so slowly, Bilbo pulled the mantle out of his pocket and for a split second, ran his thumb over the crease. After this, there was no going back, there was no denying he wasn’t a young man anymore, that there were Baggins below him steadily growing into their roles.

Patience.

Strength.

Sanctuary.

Chivalry.

Drogo bowed his head.

Bilbo unfolded the mantle. A hush fell over the crowd. (In some ways, the whole situation had an air of absurdity around it. Hobbits were never quiet, not for love or money, but the transferring of a Mantle? That was something that only happened once in a lifetime.)

“Responsibility and Loyalty.” Bilbo whispered to Drogo, his words carrying easily over the crowd due to the silence. “That is all I could ever ask of you.”

Taking a step back, the mantel still held in a loose grip, Bilbo placed a hand on the boy's bowed head. “Do you, Drogo Baggins, heir of my heart, and of our grandfather's line, promise to uphold both oath and contract, faith and spirit?”

Drogo gave a shuddering breath. “I do.”

“Do you promise to maintain the integrity of the Baggins…” Bilbo shot the meddlesome In-Bteweener a quick look, quickly mending his question before Gandalf could think too far into the interaction, “station and duty?”

Drogo raised his head a bit at this and Bilbo could see the poor lad running the statement through his head and coming up with no underlying trickery. “I do.”

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment, pride welling up behind his ribs and clogging his throat. Drogo would make a wonderful Master and hold his mantle with pride. “Do you promise to guide those before you and to teach the responsibilities and faith to the next generation?

There was no hesitation. “I do.”

“And finally,” Bilbo said, his gaze hardening as he looked over Drogo's head and into the crowd, “do you promise to never break faith or oath?”

Drogo looked up, the shadow of Otho's betrayal darkening his eyes. “I will never break faith or oath, on my name and these lands I promise.”

There was a whisper in the crowd, a general tone of surprise and approval rolling through the rows.

“To this promise, I bind you.” Bilbo swore, his hand leaving the top of Drogo's head. Oaths made in the Shire could not _stick_ without paper and ink, but Bilbo swore that the moment the words were out of his mouth, his heart beat a bit faster and his lungs breathed a bit easier. Under his hand, Drogo shuddered momentarily before easing up a bit. “By this Mantle, may you be recognized.”

Bilbo slipped the mantle over Drogo's head and pretended not to see the way the boy’s shoulders slumped, as if under some great weight.

(This wasn’t a kindness, what Bilbo had placed on Drogo's shoulders. It wasn’t a kindness and it broke a bit of Bilbo's heart to know that Drogo, kind, sweet, empathetic Drogo, who ran his fingers through the flowers and twisting messages on the mantle, didn’t know better then to look up and positively _beam_.)

(This wasn’t a kindest and it certainly wasn’t a mercy.)

Slowly, Bilbo's hand fell from Drogo's head and the boy gingerly climbed to his feet. The kind boy, the poor, kind, little boy who had grown up somewhere between one blink and the next, gave Bilbo a cheeky little smile.

“By this mantle, may you be at rest.” Drogo droned, his lips quirking a bit as he slipped Bilbo's mantle off his shoulders and deftly folded it into Bilbo's hands.

They both knew ‘rest' was not something Bilbo would be gaining anytime soon.

“Impertinent boy.” Bilbo whispered, his heart clenching as he caught sight of the incomplete design in his hands. “Go on. Go join your cousins. This is your party after all.”

Stepped forward, Bilbo swept a hand towards the crowd. “Now that it is all official,” a few of the hobbits cheered, “why don’t we have a little bit of…” Bilbo trailed off, movement in the corner of his garden catching his eye.

Prim sat atop the fence, her hand raising in a little wave even as her Brandybuck brothers and Took cousins bounced over the fence with candles in their hands.

“Tooks!” Bilbo shouted, already half diving off his porch. He had grown up with the Took boys after all, he knew how well anyone with that blood could bring chaos to a party, even an impromptu one.

His garden exploded into pandemonium.

Prim's laughter floated over the shouts and shrieks of the clan. Bilbo had just enough time to scramble back up to his feet and catch sight of one of his younger cousins deftly lighting what looked to be a string attached to a tube stuck in the ground of Bilbo's front yard.

It only took a heartbeat to remember the birthday parties of his youth. When Gandalf had access to the Shire by way of Belladonna and the Thain. It only took a moment to remember the _wiz_ and the _bang_ of Gandalf's rather (entertaining) annoying inventions.

“Fireworks.” Bilbo growled, already diving back under his porch, just in case the foolhardy boy had accidently aimed the stick at Bilbo's front door.

The firework exploded a second later, thankfully aimed towards the sky.

Bilbo scrambled back up onto his porch, gratified to see that even the dwarrow had hit the ground at the unexpected explosion. It wasn’t the most opportune moment to sneak away, not with the benches overturned, hobbits breaking out into brawls in every which direction, and a general state of panic being declared across Bagshot Row.

That being said, it was almost a normal Tuesday all things considered.

“Come along, Cousin!” Prim shouted, her hand clamping down onto Bilbo's wrist as she darted over the porch. “You have places to be!”

Stumbling, Bilbo had no choice but to accept the pack thrown at him by an oddly enthusiastic Lobelia even as Prim practically dragged him towards the spooked dwarrow and the sour looking In-Betweener.

Unsurprisingly, only Bofur did not appear overly concerned about the chaos. Instead, the dwarf was leaning on his mattock and shaking his head at some of the bold Took faunts dashing about the yard. “Pebbles.” He commented sagely, his head coming down in a sharp nod. “You really shouldn’t leave a wagon unattended near them.”

The fact Gandalf straightened and blustered something about sticky fingered faunts, certainly did not make Bilbo smile. No. Not at all.

Prim skittered to a halt, tugging Bilbo beside her. The poor girl looked disheveled, now that Bilbo was close enough to see the girl's pale cheeks and dark eyes. Yet, before he could comment, the girl was shoving his pack onto his back and swiping a box from a passing Took boy.

“I know I said some things last night, I probably shouldn’t have.” Prim muttered as she pressed the box into Bilbo's hands. “But I think I understand what you mean now.”

Bilbo stared at her. “Prim, what… I don’t….”

“Responsibility and loyalty.” Prim whispered, her head coming down onto Bilbo's shoulder as she gave him a fierce hug. “It is not our fault a ‘breaker exists but it is our responsibility to clean up the mess.”

Bilbo looked down at her in a mix of confusion and pride. “You don’t have to do this Prim. You don’t have to love a man and compromise your morals.”

“Otho knew what he was doing.” Prim hissed into his shoulder. “Every ‘breaker knew the consequences. It’s not your fault you have to clean up the mess.”

“Oh Prim.” Bilbo sighed, awkwardly patting her back with one hand.

“Now get going.” Prim suddenly shouted as she pushed Bilbo away. “You have a contract to fix!”

A gaggle of Took boys went running by and Prim folded into the group with nary more then a cackling laugh that would have made her mother proud and her father weep. For a moment, Bilbo could only watch the chaos that had unfolded in the middle of his front yard, half staring in disbelief when Lobelia suddenly appeared from his front door, an umbrella held aloft in one hand and a wicked grin settling onto her face.

In all, it wasn’t a terrible send off party.

“You know,” Bilbo commented as he turned towards the huddled group of dwarrow and In-Betweener, “I had always wondered why you were called the Disturber of the Peace. But, I suppose this answers that question.”

Gandalf gave him a sour look before turning and proceeding to march down Bagshot Row, his staff held in front of him to prod away any of the brawls that rolled out into the street.

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. Straightening the straps, and tucking the box under one arm, Bilbo nodded after the wizard. “I don’t suppose we should be following him?”

At his question, the dwarrow suddenly closed ranks, the ‘not faunts' placed in the center of the pack as they practically bolted after the wizard. At the sight, Bilbo nearly snickered. Big, scary dwarrow, put off balance by a good old fashion Took chaos.

Turning, Bilbo couldn’t resist looking back at Bag End one last time. His garden was almost completely overturned, his gate had been left hanging from one hinge, and it looked like someone had already brought out the Gamgee Moonshine. His mother would have been proud, his father would have been chasing the world out of his front garden with a broom.

For once, Bilbo was just grateful _he_ wasn’t stuck with the cleanup.

Turning back to the road, Bilbo followed the winding path of the dwarrow. Occasionally, a neighbour would come careening by, a platter of food held aloft for what would surely turn out to be one of the largest impromptu second breakfasts in the history of the Shire. The laughter drifting down the road was enough to put a small smile on Bilbo's lips, even as the commotion slowly died the further from Bagshot Row they traveled.

Eventually, they reached the bottom of The Hill and evened out towards the border of Hobbition. Here, the hobbits they passed were more subdued, a little more shifty-eyed then the happy lot back at Bag End.

“Oh, Master Baggins!” Someone shouted before Bilbo could grab the arm of a passing Treecrew girl and inquire what had the border of the Hobbition in such a funk.

“Master Baggins!” Caradoc Silverstring called, careening to a halt in front of Bilbo, his arms pinwheeling as he struggled to regain his balance. Just a ways up, Bilbo saw the dwarrow pause in their mad scramble after Gandalf and turned back to see Bilbo stopped.

Bilbo waved them on a head absently. He has a feeling he knew what this was about.

“Master Baggins!” Caradoc panted, his face a shade too pale. “Master Baggins, Otho Baggins was found dead. Healer Lily said it was an accident, it seems he ate something that he shouldn’t have.”

It took everything Bilbo had not to throw his head back and start laughing hysterically. Otho. Dead. Thank Yavanna and all her green paths, the ‘breaker was dead. Morbidly, Bilbo had to wonder what the _specialized_ Bounders had used to off the man. Most likely, it was a tea blend, Yavanna knew Otho only drank purchased blends rather then growing his own in the window box. It wouldn’t have been hard to make up a pot and convince Otho to have a drink while discussing a possible contract.

Either way, the ‘how’ did not matter. Otho was dead, Lobelia was free from that despicable creature and while Drogo would have a bit more work until a Baggins could be sent to take up this corner of the Shire, it was a better alternative to leaving Otho alive.

“That’s terrible.” Bilbo gasped, forcing himself to look horrified at the mere thought of Otho’s death. “Unfortunately, I’ve been called out of the Shire for the foreseeable future, and Drogo has taken up the Mastery in my stead. Lobelia has also been contracted to maintain Bag End in my absence. If you could pass the message on, I would appreciate it. As it is, I am already running behind.”

Caradoc looked a bit blindsided and for a moment, Bilbo could only think of how young the boy was. This was probably his first death he had to deal with as a Bounder and Yavanna knew Bilbo wasn’t making it any easier for him by passing the buck to Drogo.

Clasping the boy on the shoulder, Bilbo gave him an encouraging nod before turning and stepping quickly after the retreating backs of the dwarrow. From the looks of things, the Ur family had hung back to keep an eye on him, even as they kept marching to the border. In all, it seemed the journey was off to an alright start, if a bit chaotic.

Shaking his head, Bilbo hiked his pack up higher and readjusted his grip on the box Prim had pressed into his hands. From the looks of things, the dwarrow were not about to stop anytime soon and he was in for a long day’s walk.

Well, at least he had an old family friend to catch up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank the Gods, we're out of the Shire and Otho is dead!  
> Only took 10 chapters.  
> Either way, yay!!!


	11. The Terrifying Ponies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Guys, I have a brand new shiny chapter for you! Its great. Well, at least I think so. Anyway, I'm heading back to school in about two weeks so I'm probably going to be working on this between banging my head against the wall over math questions.  
> So, my dudes, as always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost  
> Ps; for once I've got no warnings. Uh, look at that.  
> Edit: My cat just jumped onto the laptop and somehow changed a couple things around on my screen and i'm hoping to the gods above he didn't screw up anything here. If someone's reply to a comment or anything has weird typos, tell me and I'll go edit. So sorry folks, the Study Buddy wanted the pets

Bilbo had not treated with many dwarrow before this group of thirteen. To be honest, most dwarrow were dealt with in Bree, or had contracts written firmly enough that Bilbo was only ever called to consult for cases brought to him by his cousins, often urged by the behest of Men.

(For Bilbo to leave the Shire for any contract was enough to make the Baggins Clan sit up and take notice. The fact that Bilbo was leaving for settlements further then Bree would set the whole Shire a twitter. The irony of the situation was Bilbo had been trying to outdo the gossip his parents had created before he had been born. Yet, all it took was for Bilbo to continue to do his duties as Master. His father was probably weeping in his grave.)

Bilbo knew enough of the dwarrow court to not step in it, but he hardly knew more then that. Still, he would have to be a softer footed, brainless twit not to notice the Urs bracketing him between them, even while they tossed what appeared to be knives and oddly shaped blocks of wood over his head.

“What,” Bilbo eventually broke down and asked in bemusement, “are you doing?”

Toymaker gave him a mischievous grin. “Oh, this and that.”

This was worse then talking to a Baggins tween, all misdirect and shinny teeth. “Master Toymaker,” (Toymaker might have offered his name, might even have offered to repay a full debt, but Bilbo did not have to like it. Shire land would protect the dwarf for now, but once they reached a border? No. It was easier to keep distance, to ensure _nothing_ slipped.) Bilbo began unflinchingly, “I do have eyes you know.”

Toymaker gave a rumbling laugh. “Oh, I know you do, but do you look at the right thing?” The dwarf flipped what looked to be a disk of wood from knuckle to knuckle, his other hand twirling a blade around absently. “You are much like your mother.”

Bilbo had a feeling he was going to be hearing that a lot more in the upcoming months. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased about that or not. It was nice not to be compared to his father, but Bilbo remembered his mother after the Fell Winter far better then he did his mother of childhood. He remembered the pale skin, the lines of stress around eyes and mouth, the depression.

“We are poor dwarrow.” Bombur suddenly broke in, easily stepping between his brother and the slightly pale hobbit. “None would think different of us having wooden adornments in our hair or on our clothing. That isn’t even to mention Bofur's Mastery. Out of respect for Bofur's master, we carried minimal iron even before we entered the Shire. Now that you are with us…” the rotund dwarf trailed off, shrinking into himself when he realized his other companions had been watching with interest.

Bilbo absently patted his arm even as he gave a toothy smile to the audience of dwarrow. “I have no doubt, but you do not need to worry about me. I can handle a bit of iron.”

“A bit, yes.” Toymaker muttered, the disk slipping into a pocket as he caught another block of wood from Bifur. “But can you handle it pressed against you when you are hurt, tired, bleeding, or sick? This will be a long journey, it is better to prepare now rather then later.”

There was something warm unfurling behind Bilbo's ribs, a small, grasping thing that had him ducking his head and grumbling even as he tried to hide a smile. Traders new better then to sell iron in the Shire but it was rare another court would recognize and abstain from wearing it near a Baggins. It was a risk all Baggins took when dealing with outsiders, but it was the first time an outsider had ever acknowledged the risk.

“You don’t have to do this for my sake.” Bilbo protested, forcing down the warmth.

Toymaker hummed, his hat slipping down a bit as he rolled the block between his fingers. “Did your father ever tell you how he had scarred his knuckles?”

For a moment, all Bilbo could do was blink, the fuzzy memory of his father nursing his hand on cold and rainy days surfacing in the back of his mind. Bilbo had always wondered at that scar, at how Bungo's knuckles had always seemed ever so slightly swollen and constantly shaking.

Toymaker nodded once, his hat flopping about with the movement. “Consider this repayment.”

There was a story there, Bilbo could practically taste the damn thing, but he knew better then to ask. Bungo had always made it clear that iron scars were nothing to scoff at and if Bilbo thought iron was to come down on his hands or wrists, then he should make sure it was his non dominate hand.

(There were horror stories the Tooks told, of being clapped in irons for some small slight while traveling. A Baggins would always be in danger first from their own tongue and blood while abroad, but second by the callousness of Men. Iron hurt and for a young Baggins, there was too much danger in the fickleness of outsiders.)

“Master Boggins!” Kili broke in, bouncing in front of Bilbo and staring up at him with a guileless expression. “Master Boggins I have a question.”

Bilbo felt one eye twitch. He knew the archer was aware of Bilbo's real name, if Lobelia smacking his knuckles was not enough of a reminder, then the transferring of the mantle should have been a hint. “Well, little pebble, what seems to be the problem?”

Kili's eyes narrowed, his expression becoming pinched even as Toymaker suddenly developed a cough that sounded suspiciously like snickers.

“Are you a lord?”

Honestly, Bilbo had been expecting someone to ask the second he had stepped out his door and addressed the clan. Therefore, the question was not so much unexpected as it was surprising in its bluntness.

“No.” Bilbo responded after a few strides. “No, I am not a lord.”

“A King then?” Kili asked, his gaze flicking to the back of his Uncle as if for support. But the other dwarf was too far ahead to be much help.

“No Kili, I am not a king.”

The boy pouted as he absently shoved his hair over his shoulder. “Well, what are you then?”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. The boy was not used to being unanswered, it seemed, and even worse the boy seemed to know it. “I,” Bilbo began, drawing himself up with a mischievous grin, “am Master Bilbo Baggins.”

For some reason, instead of drawing back with a sneer and throwing his hands up into the air, Kili gave Bilbo a look of absolute delight. “Of course Mr. Boggins!”

As the boy darted away, Bilbo turned and gave Bofur an uneasy look which the dwarf returned. They both knew faunts. They knew that curiosity was something that could never be fully stated.

“Did I create a monster?” Bilbo asked uncertainly, his gaze pinned on how the boy jumped onto his brother's back and sent them both tumbling to the ground in a series of furious yells and curses.

“No,” Bofur said as he patted Bilbo on the shoulder consolingly, “but you did just become a target of inquiry.”

Bilbo grumbled a bit but shrugged when it seemed that the boy would not be bouncing back anytime soon. If the boy wanted something, Bilbo was sure he would be back in a heartbeat, but for the moment, Bilbo did not have to worry about half truths and riddles. They were still on Shire land, the Green Dragon was looming in the distance, and Bilbo had not been at peace like this for a long time. The likelihood of good fortune staying with them on the road was nigh impossible and Bilbo knew enough to appreciate a good thing while it lasted.

“Oh, Bilbo.” Bofur called after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Do you know how to ride?”

Hobbits, as a rule, are light footed and hardly ever tripped over their own feet. Bilbo, in this moment, seemed to have forgotten that fact, as he caught his foot around his own ankle and stumbled forward into Bifur.

“Pardon me?” He squeaked, his gaze flitting over to Toymaker. “Ride? Goodness gracious no! I don’t ride. No hobbit rides unless it is for carts or emergencies. Two feet firmly on the ground at all times, Master Dwarf. There should be two feet on the ground at all times.”

“There, there, my good fellow.” Gandalf suddenly swept in, the scent of Old Toby making Bilbo flash to long nights spent over a desk, scribbling onto parchment and drinking long cold tea. “I believe it was your great-great-great uncle,”

“Bullroarer Took, yes.” Bilbo cut across Gandalf's tale before the old meddler could get started. Bilbo was still cross with the Man and having him recite that unwieldy tale would only raise the Baggins' temper.

“Did you know he was tall enough to ride a horse?” Gandalf continued as if Bilbo had not spoken. “And I do believe he had invented golf. Went riding out to the invading goblins and took the kings head off with one blow. Of course, the head went flying and Bullroarer gained the first hole in one.”

Toymaker whistled, “That must have been some shot.”

Bilbo ground his teeth together and forced himself to smile. “Ah yes. Good man, Bounder Bullroarer Took. Managed to salvage the Long Cleeve's fields with that stunt.”

Gandalf looked down at Bilbo with a twinkle in his eye. “Oh Bilbo, you remember your history wrong. Bullroarer was no Bounder.”

Whatever emotion Bilbo felt smoldering in his veins must have flashed across his face, because Toymaker was suddenly stepping in front of him and chattering at the In-Betweener so quickly that Gandalf was forced to take a step to the side.

Bullroarer Bandobras Took, not a bounder? What nonsense was this? Of course he was a bounder. Everyone in the Shire knew the story. Bandobras Took, hailing from Long Cleeve, was a senior Bounder. Like every Took Bounder before him, his duties were of two minds. The first was of the village guard and enforcing the laws of the Thain. The second was to work beside the Baggins to ensure ‘breakers were dealt with swiftly and quietly.

Fresh back from a settlement of Man, Bounder Bandobras was ushered to the traps near the Old Forest where some enterprising farmer had already set the pitch bogs alight, keeping the Goblins back even while the snow flew. The pitch burned for a week while the Thain, Bounder Bandobras, and the Master Baggins schemed on how to settle the matter with the least damage and carnage to the Shire. After many a meeting, it was decided that Bandobras would accompany the Master Baggins as they treated with the Goblins.

The negotiations were swift, the hobbits bowing to every demand and suggestion the goblins had. The greedy goblin king, playing true to the goblin nature, signed the accord, handed over the provided tokens, and then promptly broke the oath the Baggins had just sworn into Shire paper.

_Do not threaten or attempt to harm any Shire inhabitants._

The goblin king stood and threatened to raze the shire to the ground and massacring all hobbits they found.

And this is where the legends became wildly varying. The official report given to Men is that Bandobras rode out to meet the king and struck his head off in one blow. Gandalf had always seemed rather entertained by the imagery for some Yavanna forsaken reason. The Baggins, however, told a different tale.

The Baggins’ report simply stated that the Master gave leave to the Bounder to deal with the ‘breaker of the newly signed contract. The goblin king, already insane and halfway to deaths door simply by point of being an old frail being, died quickly under the Bounders' club. The goblin forces, bound by the oath of their king, also suffered under the pain of a breaker.

Those who were not subdued by the bounders, were swallowed up by the rolling hills of the Shire.

As a faunt, Bilbo had never been given any reason not to believe the tale. Excitable faints and Tooks were well known for galivanting across the Shire looking for relics of the battle. And, if one were to believe Farmer Maggot, then the misshapen rocks he plowed out of his field season after season were the remains of goblins. As an adult, Bilbo could do little but gnash his teeth together. If no Thain had ever felt the need to enlighten the old In-Betweener on the truth of the matter, then who was Bilbo to argue?

Cursing the In-Betweener under his breath, Bilbo continued to march alongside the Ur family. Under his feet the Shire hummed along pleasantly and aside from a faint burn of annoyance, Bilbo was otherwise having a rather pleasant day. That is, until he remembered what Toymaker had asked.

“Surely we are not going to actually ride ponies?” Bilbo hissed as he stepped closer to the rotund cook.

Bombur gave him a grin. “Well of course we are! How else do you think we are going to get to the mountain? Walk?”

Feeling rather foolish in the face of such a question, Bilbo found himself bristling slightly. “I thought walking was rather obvious. It’s not as if the dragon is going anywhere and I rather doubt anyone would be able to sneak in ahead of us!”

With the broken contract laying over the region, no one had better try to break into any strong hold. Yavanna only knew what the contract meant for those living in the area, and Bilbo did not need anyone dealing with curses and broken oaths thank you very much.

Bombur frowned. “Ponies would be faster.”

Opening his mouth to fire off a reply, Bilbo nearly swallowed his tongue when the faunts burst through the small space between Bilbo and Bombur, muttering curses as they chased each other round and round.

“By Mahal's Beard those boys are fast.” Toymaker painted as he flopped sideways onto his brother's shoulder. “They ran between me and Thurken and by Durin, the shock nearly made the grumpy old man whack them with his staff.”

“Pity.” Bilbo muttered under his breath. “A heart attack would have been nice.”

“Be kind.” Toymaker admonished as he straightened out his hat. “A sudden aneurism might have been faster.”

Bilbo cut the dwarf a quick glance. “Big word.”

Toymaker stood up straight and gave a gain nearly as identical and just as crooked as his brother. “I got me-self an education, I did!”

Bilbo snorted as he attempted to reign in his laughter. “Ah yes, I see that. But in all seriousness, ponies?”

“Ponies.” Toymaker agreed, his face uncharacteristically grim. “There had been talk of wagons but they would never make the mountain path. If we were to take a stab at a shorter and admittedly safer route, we run the risk of being detained on the road.”

Bilbo nearly stumbled. “We're not taking the short route?” he exclaimed, his voice shrill. He had expected the journey to be a few months at the very least, but the way Toymaker was talking, Bilbo was starting to wonder if he should be concerned about a multi-year journey.

Toymaker shrugged. “Nah. There are a couple solid reasons why though. Part of it is because the portends. Oin,” The dwarf gestured to the healer further ahead, “while not a priest of Mahal, has some formal training and he, along with a few dwarrow from the temple, recognized the signs of the quest needing to be undertaken. If we received the signs, there’s no telling if any other court received the same message. Another part is funds. There was just barely enough resources to take the thirteen of us, we could never have afforded wagons unless we actually took along wares to sell. Besides, With us gone, that is less pay being sent back to our families and if this quest does not succeed, there needed to be enough financial stability left behind to guarantee our families are not at risk while in a mourning period.”

For a moment, the words sat uncomfortably between the three companions and Bilbo was starkly reminded of Toymaker's comments the night before. The Blue Mountains were dying, these dwarrow would not risk this quest if there was not a good reason. And a good enough reason they had.

Toymaker continued on with a firm nod towards the miserable figure at the front of the line. “Another reason is the fact Thorin was turned down by the other lords and kings. Without the arkenstone or King Thror or Thrain's ring to solidify Thorin's claim to the lonely mountain, anyone who arrives before us or forces the Durin's into their debt, can lay claim to Erebor. Its partly why there are so many with Durin's blood on this quest. Even as long as one makes it to the mountain and lays claim to the throne, the Blue Mountains will be able to evacuate and claim lost kin scattered during the original sacking.”

In retrospect, Bilbo probably focused on the wrong part of the explanation. “Claim? Claim to what?”

The look Toymaker shot him made Bilbo wonder if he was being particularly dense. “Thorin Oakensheild.” He said slowly with a gesture to the dwarf's back. “King Thorin Oakensheild.”

Bilbo blinked. Well, Lobelia would be mortified. She had nearly killed a king. He was never going to let her live this down. Actually, that explained quiet a bit about the dwarf, including his poor attitude. Considering his people were dying and he was on a desperate last chance quest, and all that.

“You're taking this rather calmly.” Toymaker commented.

“I’m more stuck on the fact Lobelia nearly killed a king with my second best frying pan.” Bilbo shot back, still bewildered on the fact he was traveling with a king of all things. Weren’t they supposed to be more refined and not as, well, rugged?

Then an awful thought occurred to Bilbo. “Don’t tell me those faunts are baby Tooks.” The grimace Toymaker shot him made a shiver crawl down Bilbo's spine. “Oh Yavanna's merciful garden, they're Tooks!”

“More like tweens, but I supposed they are in fact Tooks. They're Thorin's sister-sons.” Toymaker was quick to assure. “They are all of age.”

“Tweens!” Bilbo wailed, desperately wishing he could shift the box he was holding around so he could drop his head into his hands. “You're taking tweens to face a dragon!”

“Bilbo,” Toymaker cut in sharply, annoyance flitting across his face, “would the Thain not take his sons to deal with the Men of Bree or the danger of the Old Wood? Besides, didn’t we settle this yesterday?”

The comment stopped Bilbo dead in his tracks, his protests dying on his lips.

Toymaker did not seem to care. “Did you not just leave a faunt in charge of the Baggins Clan?”

Oh. Bilbo ducked his head. When he put the situation in that kind of perspective…

“Do not judge what you do not understand, Bilbo Baggins.” Toymaker warned, the small twitching of his lips be laying the harshness of his tone.

Still, Toymaker seemed to realize his point had been made because he allowed Bilbo to scurry a few steps ahead to process. Casting a look around, Bilbo was surprised to see the Green Dragon looming ahead. He hadn’t realized they had covered enough ground to reach the inn. The Green Dragon mainly catered to work crews and husbands who found themselves in the metaphorical dog house. Bilbo himself had wandered through the doors a few times in his life, the food was reasonable for the price the Green Dragon settled for and the rooms were always clean enough. However…

Bilbo groaned. “Ponies.”

To the side of the Green Dragon, was a stable. The damned thing had been built a few decades back, when Belladonna had still been going on adventures. When her visitors had come calling, the barns and stables used for the Tooks were often already filled to capacity. Grandfather, at the behest of his daughter and the distraught locals, had sent funds for a stable to be built and a Took assistant to always be on hand to maintain the place.

Bilbo had never had cause to enter and he had planned to keep it that way. Yet, with the largest group of dwarrow visiting Hobbition, it seemed the stable had reached maximum capacity. (The ponies being shuffled between errant Tooks outside certainly seemed to indicate an overwhelmed crew.) Which meant, of course, (King!) Thorin’s group would have to continue on with the blasted ponies immediately.

(Bilbo had a suspicious feeling that the fact Thorin was a king and his nephews were princes, was going to sneak up and hit him later. Right now, he was more concerned about the hobbits milling about the stable and what that might mean for his poor future.)

“Hey, Master Dwarf! We have your ponies tacked up and ready to go!”

Bilbo stared at the figure waving from atop a fence post. From the distance, he couldn’t quiet make out who was perched up there, but he was willing to bet it was Marigold Took. Little Marigold Took, one of his second cousins, and from the looks of things, one of his second cousins who had been kicked out of the Took estate for the summer.

Marigold dropped down to the ground and scampered into the stable as Bilbo was about to yell out a greeting. Oh boy. There was a muffled shout from the stables and Bilbo shuffled over to stand behind Toymaker.

Maybe he should have just stayed home.

Somewhere in front of the stable, Bilbo could hear Thorin speaking to a Took and as Bilbo desperately tried to find an excuse to walk alongside the ponies rather then ride, Toymaker let out an excited shout. “Oh, look! This Dear carried me all the way from the mountain. Isn’t she a darling?”

Toymaker hauled Bilbo out from behind him and shoved Bilbo in front of the most terrifying creature Bilbo had ever had the pleasure to set eyes on.

“Yavanna’s bodice!” Bilbo yelped as white teeth flashed past his nose and darted towards his shoulder. Scrambling backwards, Bilbo clutched at Toymaker’s jacket and stared at the beast. White eyes rolled towards him and the demon creature’s neck seemed to _grow_ as it snapped towards him. Coarse hair slipped along the back of his hand and Bilbo shrieked, letting go of Toymaker’s jacket to scramble back to safety.

“Oh, don’t be like that. She’s a darling.” Toymaker chuckled as he patted the _beast._

“That, that, that,” Bilbo stuttered, one hand coming up to point at the _beast_ , “ _thing,_ is taller than me.”

Toymaker seemed to think this was the funniest thing in the whole Shire as he flashed Bilbo a massive smile. “You’re just short.”

“Excuse me!” Bilbo shouted, indignant. He was not short. He was a perfectly respectable height for a hobbit. It was everyone else that was simply too tall.

The _beast_ huffed as it shuffled forward a looming step and Bilbo squeaked, his shoulders crawling up to his ears as the _thing_ swung its head to Toymaker’s open palm.

“Alright. Up you get!”

Hands clamped down around Bilbo’s waist and he bit down on another shriek as somebody swung him up and around. It would not do to spook the _creature._ Not when it had those _teeth_ and _hooves._

“Toymaker.” Bilbo croaked, stiff as a board in the saddle as the _demon_ swung its head to the side to eye him up as Bilbo might eye up a nice meat pie. “Get me down.”

Beside him, Toymaker climbed up onto another _beast_ and Bilbo twisted just enough to realize the dwarrow had all collected their own four hooved creatures and surrounded him before he clutched the box Prim had given to him closer to his chest and closed his eyes. “This isn’t happening.” He sang under his breath. “Nope. Not at all.”

Toymaker let out a laugh. “Oh, come on Bilbo, you’ll be fine.”

No, this was not happening at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted, that I am absolutely terrified of ponies and horses, and my mate who is an equestrian, straight up has snarled to me while I was writing this chapter, that ponies are devils.  
> Hazzardofacat, Popcorn, and Prancingpony, I stand by my statement that ponies are terrifying, but anyway, hi!!!!


	12. Headaches and Sneaky Hobbits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plunks chapter down*  
> *falls face first into a pile of homework*  
> Dear lord, why does it have to be math and why the hell is everything now singed and burnt?  
> *looks up*  
> On a side note, you all have terrifying stories about ponies and horses and I hope you all realize this is not helping me get over my concerns. Anyway, this chapter is a bit of filler, a little bit of communication, and kinda more background then moving the story forward, but nest chapter we will be in Bree and moving on with life.  
> Thank the gods.  
> Anyway, as always, have fun, enjoy, and please dont shoot me.  
> -Lost

Thorin Oakenshield would never admit it, but he had a headache. Over the course of his long and dreary lifetime, he had been through countless battles, decades of forging, and countless hours beside deafening war drums, and Mahal only knew how many winter nights he spent babysitting the boys. Those two could drive anyone to murder, (he shouldn’t joke about that, not when his boys, his sister-sons bore scars from disgruntled citizens and politicians alike) yet, Thorin swore this headache was the worst one of his entire existence.

His memories of the night before were hazy, the ale certainly not helping the pounding in his skull. Drinking was probably a foolish decision, but he did clearly remember the cutting rejection from the Council and he did remember being dismissed like an errant pebble. He remembered standing before the other lords and begging, _begging,_ for reinforcements or at least safe havens as he struggled across Arda to his ransacked home. He remembered being dismissed, of being told that he should be happy the other settlements were not taxing him and his people for graciously ‘allowing' Erebor's scattered survivors to hunker like rats in the lower huts of their cities.

Thorin had not been expecting much, had not even dared to hope anyone would join him on this foolhardy quest, but he had not been expecting to be told to leave the council room entirely.

Once upon a time, the Durin name would have been enough to rally troops. (Once upon a time, Thorin would have been able to command legions. Once upon a time, Thorin would have been crowned King Under the Mountain. Once upon a time, Thorin would have still been crown prince and his brother, his heir.)

(Once upon a time, Thorin would not have had to fight for every scrap of food and money that his people managed to gather.)

(Once upon a time, Thorin would have been content.)

So, it might have been the height of foolishness to drink, but between the shame of being dismissed by a council Thorin's grandfather had helped maintain and support and the disastrous meeting with the hobbit, Thorin had figured he deserved a drink.

Thorin would never admit it, but it was not the shock of seeing a frying pan of all things flying towards him that had frozen him to the spot. (He did help raise Dis after all. Most days he had been lucky if it was only a frying pan that had come flying towards his head.) No, it was not the frying pan that made him freeze. That honour had gone to the maker's mark etched into the center of the pan.

Decades ago, Thorin had taken a blacksmithing job in Bree. The pay had been reasonable and the posting was the closest one to the Blue Mountains he had been able to find. The boys were yet young, Vili was still alive, and Thorin had not wanted to venture far from his remaining family. Ferin's death had haunted Thorin more then he had wanted to admit. His father’s disappearance and assumed death had not been so difficult in comparison. His father had been drawing distant for years and the excuse of his so-called death had been the perfect one to call off the war.

Dain's father had fallen. Fundin had been found dead. Ferrin had been ambushed. Dain, too young by far to be on the battlefield, had lost his leg. Thorin had taken one look at his people, at Dwalin's hollow eyes, at Dain's amputated limb, at the mines of Moria, and called a retreat.

They had returned home with less people then when they had left and Thorin had to stand in front of his people, without a crown or ring to symbolize his reign, and tell them their families had been burned.

They had not been able to return a single body to stone.

(Some nights, Thorin was convinced he could still see the ash of his people on his clothes. Some nights all he could smell was the scent of his people _burning_.)

So no, Thorin had not wanted to travel far in those early days. Bree had been a welcome relief. It was a small settlement and Thorin, still raw from the battles, had hardly left the forge he had been hired to attend. His employer, some portly merchant Thorin no longer remembered well enough to name, had ensured two meals a day and provided the loft of the shop for Thorin's personal use.

To be honest, Thorin did not even remember seeing any hobbits about during his three month employment. Thorin was simply given work. He woke with the sun and went to bed when the sky was darker then an unlit mine shaft. What he would not forget though, was the oddest request for a frying pan that made Thorin wonder if _he_ was going to be cooked and served up for dinner. The sheer size of the project had made Thorin go out and find his employer to clarify the dimensions were indeed correct.

(Thorin had forced the man to triple check.)

When word came that the project request was legitimate, Thorin had forged the item and etched his mark into the base like he had countless times before. Like so many other projects, the frying pan had been picked up and Thorin had never thought to seeing the tool again. And then he walked into a hobbit hole and had his own markers mark come flying towards his head.

He was stuck between being proud the frying pan had withstood the test of bashing in a dwarrow skull and annoyed that his skull had been the tester.

So yes, Thorin had a headache.

“Uncle, Master Baggins says he isn’t a lord.” Kili announced as he maneuvered his pony towards Thorin.

“Obviously he is lying.” Nori, son of Ri, cut in.

If it weren’t for the headache, Thorin might have poked fun at the annoyance crossing the thief’s face. Nori wasn’t a friend and Thorin would hesitate to say he was even an acquaintance, but he was a son of Ri and that had to count for something. The Ri clan were something of a terribly kept secret. Three dwarrow born to one mother and different fathers.

A tailor, a thief, and a scribe. (There was almost enough to make a joke there. What was it the children of Men uses to sing in the markets? _A Butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker?_ It wasn’t quite the same, but it was an amusing thought nonetheless.) Three dwarrow that held the blood of kings through their maternal line. Three dwarrow that through no fault of their own, were exiled twice over. Ri herself exiled from the records of Durin because of an ‘indiscretion’, and later, her line forced to flee under the threat of dragon fire.

(What the indiscretion was, was unknown. Considering the madness that haunted his grandfather and the Durin line, Thorin would hesitate to say there was any indiscretion at all. But, it was in the past, a dwarrow sheered, a line shunned, and three brothers desperate to work themselves back into the safety of legality.)

Thorin did not miss the _look_ Dwalin shot the theif.

(Alright, so maybe two brothers were desperate to find themselves on the right side of the law and the royal family.)

Thorin was risking his life to reclaim a home he had lost. The sons of Ri were risking their lives to reclaim the ability to call themselves Durin's blood. They would never be allowed into the line of succession but they would be able to lay their line to rest in the halls of the kings. Thorin didn’t judge. Thorin couldn’t judge. His brother burned. His father, his grandfather, his mother, his grandmother. Burned. He had lost much to ashes; he couldn’t imagine losing his name on top of it all.

Of the three sons, Thorin only knew Ori. The boy was Balin's pride and joy. The best of the best.

Of Dori, Thorin knew next to nothing. Or at least, nothing concrete. There were mutters here and there of the Ri strength blessing the eldest brother and of a temper that once lit, was more dangerous then an unstable mine. However, Thorin would have had to be deaf and blind (no matter what one might say, Thorin was certainly not deaf and most definitely not blind) to not notice that the beauty of Ri had been passed down to the three brothers. With the strength of Ri and the beauty of a Durin, it was no wonder Thorin had only ever heard of turned down courtship offers and broken skulls when it came to the eldest brother.

But, of Nori, Thorin only knew that Dwalin had hunted the bastard up and down the Blue Mountains and that Dis of all people had seemed oddly proud the thief was joining the quest. Oh sure, Thorin could probably have looked into the matter. One did not stay hidden from Dwalin for long and one did not adhere themselves to Dis easily, but Thorin knew when to turn a blind eye.

(An assassin found dead outside Fili's window. A slip of paper dropped onto Thorin's workbench, detailing the criminals responsible for the attempted murder of his sister-son. An apple given to a bemused Kili, the pebble no more then thirty, when he had somehow found himself alone in a manish marketplace.)

(Thorin was no fool.)

(Thieves worked best in the shadows and Thorin did not have the funds or the ability to reward the middle Ri. To draw attention to the thief would cause grief and trouble Thorin did not have time to deal with, so Thorin had turned his eye to the youngest. Ori had worked himself to the bone to make it to his apprenticeship. Thorin had simply pointed the pebble out to Balin. The old advisor had done the rest. Thorin could not acknowledge the middle brother, but he could make life easier for the family by nudging certain obstacles put of the way.)

That was not to mention that to ignore Dis would be suicide. His sister was a proud dam. She had birthed two sons, survived the passing of her One, and had stepped forward to be Thorin's shadow after Ferrin had died. Dis, who did not have the training needed to be Thorin's shadow but had the determination and the drive to ensure nobody else _burned._

If Dis, (little Dis, who had only stopped crying when Thorin had snuck into her nursery and practiced his harp. Little Dis, who had once been a radiant ball of sunshine and happiness to rival Kili, until Ferin had died. Dis, who Thorin had left crying in a doorway) trusted Nori enough to threaten Thorin to bring the sons of Ri back alive, Thorin would move mountains to ensure it.

“He might have been the head of a guild.” Kili piped up, his nose scrunching up in the same manner as his mother when she caught hold of a particularly interesting puzzle. “It would explain the ceremony.”

Thorin made an assessing grunt in acknowledgement to the suggestion. Thorin had seen a few guilds change hands over the years, but most of the time the transfer was little more then a promotion with very little ceremony. The head of a guild worked primarily in politics and paperwork, they hardly ever were able to practice their craft. From the sounds of the ceremony they had witnessed, Thorin was willing to bet quiet a bit on the fact the burglar was more than just a simple guild master.

“But not the fact he made the pebble swear an oath.” Balin cut across. “He was competent, I'll give him that, but I doubt Tharkun would drag along the head of a Statesman Guild just for burglary.”

Thorin played a bit with the reigns in his hand. Part of him was in agreement with Balin. There was little chance a statesman, let alone the head of a guild, would join a suicide quest just because a wizard asked him to. On the other hand, Tharkun was known to be very persuasive. All of this was also based on the assumption it was Baggins that was meant to join them.

That hole in the ground had been rather large for one person and considering the series of hobbits bustling in and out of the hole throughout the previous evening, it would not have been out of the realm of possibilities that Baggins had simply stepped in for someone else. Perhaps it was the girl that had been supposed to come? The one that had smacked Nori without hesitation?

However, Thorin could not deny that the Urs had been fiercely protective of the hobbit. That fact did little in the way of determining who or what the hobbit was, but their protectiveness was in itself, odd. Bilbo Baggins was a mystery and Thorin wasn’t sure if he wanted such an unknown along for the trek, lucky fourteenth member or not.

“The little thing was bursting at the seams with silver.” Nori interjected. “If he had nothing to do with a guild then he at least came from old money.”

Thorin pretended not to see the spoon spin over the thief’s knuckles.

“That be Took Silver there, Master Nori.”

For a heart stopping moment, Thorin honestly thought the mine-wraiths had come to life, straight from his mother's bedtime stories. Beside him, Nori took a tumble from his pony, the nag hardly stirring aside from rolling her eyes and huffing at the hobbit.

Dwalin hadn’t even had time to draw his axes.

“Oh dear me, are you alright? That was a bit of a tumble.” Master Baggins continued as if appearing on foot between a group of ponies was the most natural thing in the world.

From his perch on the pony, Thorin could see Nori scrambling up to his feet and pinning the hobbit with an incredulous stare. “Mahal's scrap bucket! Where did you come from?”

Personally, Thorin didn’t think any of them deserved the frown the hobbit tossed their way. “Master Toymaker over there,” the hobbit waved a hand back in the direction of the Urs, “was being…” the hobbit paused for a moment as if to consider the weight of his words before he said them, “rude.”

Rude.

A dwarf was being rude.

Thorin turned to look back at the Urs, and found himself blinking in bemusement at the scene that lay behind him. Bofur has clutching his nose, cursing up a storm, two sets of reigns in his hands. Bombur was shaking his head and gently guiding his pony forward, while Bifur seemed nearly asleep where he was perched up on the rear pony.

(If Thorin didn’t know better, he would think the wild dwarf in the back was singing to the pack animals and guiding them by voice alone.)

“What happened to Bofur?” Kili yelped, his voice almost sounding gleeful.

“I kicked him.” The hobbit sniffed, arms crossing over his chest when all the dwarrow turned to look at him in confusion.

Slowly, so slowly Thorin half wondered if he was being mocked, the hobbit pointed down to the ground. He almost seemed disappointed none of them followed his gesture to look down. “I kicked him.” He repeated

The explanation made about as much sense as it did the first time.

The hobbit lifted up a foot, just enough to draw the gaze of the dwarrow he had startled. “He was laughing at my misery, so I kicked him. It’s not my fault you dwarrow had such soft bones.”

Now that Thorin thought about it, the hobbit did have extraordinarily large and hairy feet. Then the hobbits words caught up with him. “Soft bones?”

The hobbit blinked, seemingly taken back at Thorins incredulous tone. “Well, you must have soft bones! I’ve never met a hobbit that could be broken by one little tap.”

Thorin looked down to where the hobbit had gestured, once again taking in the leathery looking feet. Compared to the rest of the compact figure, they were huge! If he were to see hobbit prints while hunting or foraging, Thorin would have thought the hobbits to be at least double the size of the tiny little thing before him. Yet, before Thorin could give a proper reply, the hobbit seemed to curl in on himself and scuttle away.

“When did…! How did…?” Nori muttered, drawing Thorin’s attention. The thief was patting his pockets and leaning over to rifle through his saddle bags, his eyebrows reaching ever higher. “That bloody little…”

Dwalin slapped a hand on the theif’s back. “Turn about is a bitch.” He commented with a wide grin.

The hobbit paused, a fair distance down the path back towards the Urs. Thorin would have sworn blind the hobbit couldn’t have heard Dwalin, yet the damnable thing turned and flashed a spoon in Nori's direction. “If Lobelia couldn’t take them, then you never had a chance!”

For a moment, none of the dwarrow moved, instead they took in the shell-shocked thief standing in the middle of the path. Kili started to snicker. Thorin allowed the tips of his lips to twitch.

Dwalin was the first to break the moment. “Come along, we can’t have you falling behind. Thief.”

Thorin threw a look to Balin, nearly snorting at the bemused expression on the old advisor's face. “Old bet?” he offered.

“Of that I have no doubt.” Balin shot back, shaking his head as he rode off after the shrinking form of the wizard in the distance.

In all, it wasn’t a horrid way to start a quest. If one didn’t include the headache, the terrifying display of hobbits crawling up from gardens and screeching in through dirt paths with food held aloft like mighty battle-axes, or the sheer prickliness of their fourteenth member. To be fair, Thorin had had worse starts to much less important quests. Typically though, those quests started with Thorin being given faulty maps and terrible directions.

It was hardly _his_ fault he was always late.

“Oh, do keep up Master Oakenshield!” The hobbit shouted, somehow appearing further down the path in front of them, one hand raised above his head to capture Thorin’s attention. “That path leads towards the Tookburrow! You’ll be wanting the line to Bree!”

Thorin cast a look over to Balin in confusion. The old advisor simply shook his head and rolled his eyes up to the sky. “Really Thorin, again?”

Anger brushed under Thorin’s skin. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Gandalf went clomping by on his great white horse. “Only that you managed to loop back on a straight path.”

Thorin leaned forward with a groan. It was going to be a long journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you readers are my absolute favorite and I adore the comments you have been leaving. If you guys notice any errors in the chapter, tell me and I'll fix up the spelling mistakes as soon as I get to your comment.  
> Anyway, have fun, stay safe, and thank you all.


	13. Out of the Shire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everybody!  
> This is possibly the most annoying chapter ever. I have rewritten it about, oh, five times, and only now do I like it enough to post. As this was meant to be November's chapter, I am hoping to squeeze another one in this month but I give no promises as I see exams on the horizon and terrible terrible work hours.  
> Either way, thank you everyone for your lovely comments and the rereads. You are all my favourite people!  
> As always, enjoy, have fun, and please don't shoot me!  
> -Lost

Bilbo knows the moment they reach the boundary of the Shire. Unlike what some of his more curious Took cousins have wondered, the boundary between the Shire and rest of Arda is not so much gradual as it is instant. Bilbo stands on the boundary line and watches as the dwarrow and wizard clop along as if the line from cobble to dirt was nothing more than a slight inconvenience.

Only the Urs slow, and Bilbo knows that their look of concern is more to do with his sudden silence and refusal to move than anything to do with the boundary. Their concern was touching but Bilbo was more focused on the stark switch between Shire cobble and Arda dirt. Unlike his Took cousins, to Bilbo, the boundary is something permanent and a bit more terrifying.

Bilbo has left Shire a few times since he came of age. Bree is close enough to the boundary that he can still feel the blanket protection while he wanders the markets. In Bree he is still too far for the Shire to protect him. But he can still hear the hum of contentedness and safety floating on the breeze and trembling through the earth. If his father had lived, Bungo would have brought him to the boundary the day before his coming of age. He would have stood his son on the boundary line and whispered of broken contracts and dying hobbits.

He would have spoken of torn worlds and bloodied palms.

But Bungo had not lived and Bilbo had stood alone.

It is instinct to flip a silver coin and a handful of seeds into the box hidden in the hollowed out tree beside the boundary, firmly on Shire land. It does not protect him from misused words or contract, but a Baggins knows of debt and favours, and the Shire has done much for his people. Hobbits do not pray, not like how other people do. They do not beg to Yavanna for rain, barter for good weather, or bargain for good luck. Hobbits rely on paper and contract and there are stories of holding even the gods to their words.

Bilbo does not leave coin and seed to bargain, he leaves it as an acknowledgement of paid dues.

He hears the  _ tsk  _ of silver hitting the bottom of the box and, morbidly, he wonders who else has left coin here. (If he opened the box, would he find his mother’s coin? His father’s?) With a shake of his head Bilbo takes a step over the boundary with a fearlessness he had inherited from his mother and a ruthlessness he gained from his father.

Immediately, his blood  _ sings. _

It would take absolutely nothing for him to call out. It would take nothing for him to beckon a dwarf over and to  _ bind them. _

One little agreement.

One itty bitty little trick.

(It wouldn’t take much.)

(He already has Bofur’s  _ name. _ )

There is a crackle of power in his blood and the hum of contract in his bones. Bilbo can almost taste the words of agreement on his tongue. He can almost savor each individual word of promise and oath. He is a starving man brought before a feast. Oh, the contracts he could make!

(The bonds he can shatter.)

Bilbo breaths in a shuddering gasp and takes another step. The boundary, he reminds himself, does not just protect hobbits and Baggins from Arda, it protects Arda from the Baggins.

There is an insidiousness in his blood, a creeping malice that wishes to bind and to savor the chaos created by word and deed. Family records tell that his fae ancestor was a kind woman. A beautiful lady who graced power into her bloodline and descendants. Bilbo does not know any Baggins who does not thank Yavanna every day that it was only contract and word that curls through their blood.

His ancestor might have brought power to the hobbits, but there is a certain irony Bilbo chuckles over whenever he takes a step over the boundary and is doused in the  _ ache. _ Power might be in the Baggins blood but hobbits as a rule, are inherently comfort based creatures. Why take power when one could make an honest living and have a point at night beside loving family and wonderful friends?

Bilbo takes a step into Arda and quietly packages the whispers in his ears into a tiny little box far behind his ribs, and gives a cheerful wave to Toymaker. He has no need of power and oath, not truly.

(He pretends that this time the  _ ache  _ does not make his skin crawl and his stomach roll. He pretends there is not bile at the back of his throat and a skittishness in his heart he had never associated with the boundary and the  _ ache  _ before. He is not Otho, he reminds himself as he pushes away the  _ ache.  _ He is not Otho and power does not sway him.)

“Sorry about that,” Bilbo breathes as he scurries towards Toymaker. Of course, he leaves a rather wide berth for the blasted devilish creature Toymaker calls  _ pretty _ , but he looks up to Toymaker all the same. “T'was the boundary.” He said with a nod.

Toymaker stills for a moment, his hat slipping down a bit as he turns in his saddle to look at the cobble behind them. “Ah,” he breathes, his voice a bit wary, “I had forgotten about that.”

Bilbo wasn’t surprised. The fact Toymaker knew as much as he did about the Baggins was impressive even by hobbit standards. To be honest, Bilbo wasn’t even sure Toymaker had known about the boundary. Under his feet, Arda hums and it takes everything he has not to scuff his feet into the path and  _ listen _ .

Not for the first time he wonders how his mother could have ever settled in the Shire if this is what she felt whenever she wandered over the boundary. But then, the Tooks had never seemed to be able to slip away into the paths the same way. Much too brash, his Grandfather used to say whenever a Took faunt slipped out of Maggot's fields, only to be caught moments later. Much too brash.

Although Bilbo really shouldn’t take anything the old hobbit said into consideration since he often said those very words while slinking away with his own basket filled with plunder from the fields. That being said, everyone knew that the Tooks plundered fields. Although Bilbo was the first to admit the Tooks were not the only rabble rousers in the Shire. The Baggins simply knew how not to get caught.

Still, the problem with the boundary was not so much the lack of protection from the Shire or the  _ ache _ , but instead is the sudden rush that curls into his bones and purrs along his spine. He doesn’t know if his mother had ever felt this. He was never sure how to ask, how to put the feeling into words. Even later, when he made Took Contracts, he hesitated. There was a certain sacredness to the  _ rush _ , just as the  _ ache  _ seemed profane, the  _ rush  _ seemed precious. The  _ rush  _ was a private thing and even after all these years, Bilbo couldn’t find the words to describe it.

(He wasn’t sure he wanted too.)

Only the Baggins could instinctively mark the boundary but he had always wondered if maybe the Tooks, with their wildness, were close enough to being  _ other  _ to get hooked on the  _ rush. _ Sometimes he thought it was the only reason the Tooks ever left. Walking about in the Shire after crossing the boundary seemed like walking with one foot held aloft, half blind, deaf, and oddly disjointed. Being inside the Shire was not painful but some days it could be stifling.

“Bilbo.” Toymaker called, his hand leaving the reigns to slip over the strap on Bilbo's pack. “Go. I'll meet you in Bree by night fall.”

That was all Bilbo needed to hear. He took off like a shot, melting into the spaces between the trees beside the path as if he had always belonged there. This was not the Old Wood. Bilbo did not have the danger of  _ old  _ paths slipping under his feet or the tree herders to sweep sickles at his ankles for disturbing their herd. There were no wraiths, ghosts, ruins, or any number of dark creatures lurking about that might otherwise cause problems. No. This was not the  _ old  _ forest, this one was much newer.

Bilbo slips between the trees and trails ink stained fingers along youngling bark. Arda sings under his touch and Bilbo cannot help himself when he leans forward and positively dances. There are no  _ old  _ paths here. There are no paths that could lead him away from hearth and home. Here, under his feet, there is young growth. He does not have the skill of the Gamgees or the patience of the Proudfoot, but he is a Baggins and that means much. Bilbo slips his toes into the earth and like every hobbit before him, politely asks Arda to guide him straight and guide him true.

A path blooms beneath his feet.

Bilbo bounds down the path as if every step could wash away the horrors of the last few days. It can’t, he knows this, but every step echoes with the hum of Arda and the songs of the forest and they don’t make everything perfect, but it certainly heals something cracking and weeping in his soul. How could Otho have done this?

How could have Otho betrayed his people?

(How could Bilbo have signed away Otho’s life as if it were nothing more than an annoyance?)

The path leads him straight to the outskirts of Bree much too quickly. The sun is still high in the sky and Bilbo knows the company is hours behind him. Maybe it was cruel of him to use the path, to leave the others behind, but it was not as if outsiders could use the paths anyway. He might as well take full advantage of it while he could.

Bilbo walks into Bree with hardly more than a nod to the gate guard. His collar is flipped up and he can see the exact moment the young man notices the black X’s stitched into his collar. The sudden pale cheeks and widening eyes are a dead give away.

Years ago, Bilbo had tried to joke and calm the guards of Bree, but bitter experience had taught him that it was easier to ignore the men. The Men of Bree kept their mouths shut, their purses clenched in tight fists, and signed nothing without a Baggins reading the script. This relationship did not mean that they trusted a Baggins outside of the need for contract.

(All it took was one little word and a clever little mind to reach out and  _ twist… _ )

So, no. Bilbo did not begrudge the men their illusions of safety. Otho was the perfect example of what could go  _ wrong.  _ That did not mean enjoyed the stares and the whispers that dodged his step either.

Bilbo did not go to Bree often. Contracts came to him instead. But, Bilbo knew where every Baggins was stationed and the changing of a Master was an occasion worth calling on his Bree stationed cousin. There was also the potential backlash of Otho having dealt in contracts on the sly outside of Hobbition. Bilbo didn’t want to believe Otho would stoop so low as to deal in illegal contracts with their only neighbors, but then, the hobbit had trapped his own wife. Nothing was outside the realm of possibilities, he supposed.

His black Xs burned with every stare that bored into his neck and only long practice kept Bilbo walking straight and tall. He was a Baggins. The Baggins. He would not be shamed for his title or his duties. (In his pockets, his tokens slipped between his fingers, damp with sweat.) He slipped into the  _ Prancing Pony  _ without a backward glance.

The Prancing Pony was a fair establishment. Built in Bree a mere decade after the Shire had been founded, it was the only inn around that served all manner of species. From hobbit, to man, to dwarrow, to elf, the  _ Prancing Pony  _ held their doors open to all, with rooms made to scale for each specie. As long as the  _ Prancing Pony  _ had stood, there had been Shire paper and ink framed on her walls, protecting both owner and customers from the worst of the world. Yet, the contract was hardly fool proof. Instead it was reliant on the people who crossed the threshold to be peaceful and if not kind, then compliant with the rules.

No physical fighting and no killing.

If the rules were broken, then the contract created a simple compulsion for the instigator to leave.

Bilbo had seen two children of man, no more than five years old, be all but thrown out the door by the compulsion after they had dared to throw a wooden spoon at their younger brother. Of course, the moment the children had stepped outside, stared at each other, and promised not to hurt their brother, they were allowed back in the doors.

The contract that was enforced inside the  _ Prancing Pony _ and her walls did not emit the same safety of the Shire but the moment his feet touched her worn planks there was a whisper of  _ welcome  _ and  _ contract _ .

It was no hardship to follow the whisper to the far corner booth to where Fern Baggins held court. Pausing at the opening to the booth, Bilbo watched as the young woman scratched furiously at a roll of parchment and held an old fraying scroll open with the palm of her free hand. Tilting his head, Bilbo could just make out the faded ink heading declaring the scroll a trade agreement between two families. By Shire reckoning, the scroll had to be older than Fern by at least several decades.

“Stupid old men and stupid old egos.” Fern muttered as she slouched over the old scroll. “No, we can’t get along. Oh no! Of course not! Why? Because I’m an old bastard that’s why.”

Bilbo couldn’t help the huff of amusement that slipped out at her pissy tone. He himself had uttered similar things all too often behind closed doors and over a pot of tea. And Yavanna only knew how many times his own father had made such comments.

“I’d be careful,” Bilbo warned as he struggled to hide a smile, “about saying those things too loudly while outside of your rooms.”

The pen froze on the parchment and for a heartbeat, it seemed that Fern was simply going to stare at the bleeding ink. Then, the young hobbit cursed and grabbed at a crumpled cloth, hurriedly dabbing at the stain.

Fern was young, hardly older then Drogo and Bilbo fondly remembered the year she had turned of age. Rowe Baggins, a distant cousin, had been stationed at Bree for the reigns of the past two Masters and Bilbo had never thought the man would ever retire voluntarily. But then little Fern had come along. She had tottered after Rowe like a pup, her sharp eyes watching from the floor of the  _ Prancing Pony.  _ She hadn't played with her dolls, she hadn't even complained of hunger, which for a faunt, had been concerning. But she had watched. And she had grown.

And then Rowe had found out she was a Baggins. A baby Baggins, drenched in contract and oath. A baby Baggins who had grown outside of the Shire and had no contract bound by her words or blood. And Rowe, instead of taking the girl's parents to task, had picked the lass up by her collar and asked her to read over his draft.

The next day she was apprenticed. By the time she was of age, Rowe had been making waves by loudly declaring he was going to retire. He was going to move back to the Shire and live happily by the favours of his token box. Fern, the first lass to be stationed in Bree, took over with hardly a complaint. Long used to Men and with the knowledge of how to watch her tongue outside the border of the Shire, Bilbo had given her the appointment with little fanfare and a thankful smile. Hardly any Baggins wished to leave the safety of the border and for someone to volunteer?

Bilbo had near sobbed in relief.

It helped that the only complaints he had received against the lass was due to Men. To be specific, it was due to Men and the belief a woman could not hold the position of ‘master contractor.’ Typically, Bilbo just laughed in their faces. Fern did her job and did her job well. Bilbo was willing to let her take the Men to task any day.

Fern placed her cloth to the side and looked up at him with a slight furrow in her brow. “Master Bilbo,” she acknowledged slowly, her eyes snapping behind him quickly as if looking for another person, “what can I do for you today?”

The X’s on her collar framed her throat like a brand and Bilbo had the idle thought that his people really were chained to this fate. Bound to Shire and thrice damned by their own blood. He cleared his throat. “Fern, i need to ask you,” Bilbo paused, his words trailing off as he tried to figure out how to put Otho’s betrayal into words, “has Otho been by?”

It wasn’t the best explanation, but Bilbo didn’t know what else to say.

Fern raised one delicate eyebrow as she tapped her fingers against the table. “Otho,” she near spat, “has not been in Bree since Rowe retired to greener pastures.”

For all the venom in her tone, Bilbo nearly collapsed onto the ground in relief. Fern would have been told immediately if there had been a Baggins in her territory and while there were ways to get around such an alert, it was doubtful lazy Otho would have done so.

Fern tilted her head to the side ever so slightly and folded her hands together. “Otho finally pushed you too far, didn’t he?” she asked, her face drawn in shadow. “I can tell you whatever happened, he deserved it.”

A weight settled into the pit of Bilbo’s stomach and he could feel his hands shake where he had hitched them on his waistcoat. “Did he…” He wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.

Fern flipped a hand absently. “Otho never did anything to me, he wouldn’t have dared. Not with Rowe hanging over my shoulder. But Otho was always a possessive and hard handed bastard. Lobelia has my condolences.”

There wasn’t much Bilbo could have said in response to that, so instead, he gave her a short nod. Technically, it was up to him to inform Fern that Otho had become a ‘breaker, but Fern was also a decent young lass and Drogo could use the kindness she offered.

(He wasn’t dukcing his duties. He wasn’t.)

Bilbo straightened his shoulders and pretended that he didn’t feel the chains of his responsibility hanging about his throat. “Drogo may come by to reaffirm your contract. I've been called to the East for a delicate situation.”

For a moment, he almost burst into hysterical laughter at the sheer understatement he had just uttered. That was probably the only time in history someone had dared to call a dragon  _ delicate.  _ Visions of smoke and snarling and rasping laughter danced behind his eyes. Delicate. Oh Yavanna, this was going to haunt him one day, he knew it.

Fern didn’t startle, but Bilbo could tell it was a near thing. Slowly, the lass pushed her papers to the side of the booth, uncaring of how the scrolls crumpled and bent. “I have no right,” Fern murmured as she gestured for him to sit, “to tell you what to do, Master Bilbo. But, as someone who has lived outside the boundary for most of my life, I offer you warning. Freely given.”

Bilbo sat down in the booth and tried not to think about the hundreds of travelers who had sat in the seat before him. (He tried not to think about how many contracts Fern had filed annually as voided.)

(He tried not to think about those who died.)

“I am sure I do not need to remind you that our marks,” she ran a finger along the X's in her collar, “mean nothing outside of the Shire and Bree. And I am positive I need not remind you of blood and oath.”

Bilbo inclined his head slightly and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. No one was above the blood or the oaths. Contract needed so little to be binding and cared not for good nor evil. The morals and ethics of a contract were up to the drafters and Bilbo knew his limits well.

(He would never become Otho.)

“But,” Fern rasped, her eyes glued to Bilbo's hands and her gaze a bit distant, “the paths have twisted ever so slightly and the shadows have lengthened greatly in the past few years. It’s gotten to the point that, well, Master Bilbo…” Fern looked up at him with a fierce scowl on her lips, “I tell my Tooks to stay away from the untravelled paths.”

On one hand, that answered the question if the Tooks could use the paths, but on the other…

There was a croon slinking just below his hearing and a snarl that tore straight into his bones. He should have known.  _ He should have known. _ The paths had never guided him so quickly or so easily. Never had been able to slip between the spaces and squeak down the paths without nary a thought.

“The paths are twisted.” Fern repeated, her hands twisting together as she glanced up at him. “Taking the worn paths are fine but the others…” she trailed off, her gaze flicking back down to the table. “The others have led many a hobbit astray.”

Bilbo's head sunk down a bit, his hands tightening together into a white knuckled grip. “The Old Wood grows restless.” He breathed, his brain running a mile a minute, desperately trying to fit together puzzle pieces and riddled verses. (Had he taken an old path? Had he slipped onto the twisted routes?)

(He couldn’t remember.)

“I've not heard that.” Fern said, her fingers tapping a quick beat on the table. “And yet, you travel to the East.”

Bilbo's lips thinned. The East. Out towards the ruins of Men and the territory of Elves. To the graves of mad kings and the wraiths of old ghosts. The Old Wood was dangerous enough in it’s own right, Bilbo did not look forward to seeing the woods of the elves. The Shire breathed through contract and stood firm against the ruins of Men. Bilbo did not know what kept the homes of the elves standing tall and unbowed, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If the paths had twisted…

If the shadows had lengthened…

The thought didn’t bear thinking about. The Shire had stood tall and proud for almost a thousand years. The boundary would not fall in his lifetime.

Fern, bless her soul, didn’t push Bilbo for answers. She didn’t pester or whine. She didn’t poke or prod. Instead, Fern gently reached put for her parchment and began to overtake the tabletop once again. In the flickering candlelight, Fern's bowed head blended into dusty memories of his mother writing out the monthly statements with her tongue between her teeth and her eyes trained on the piles of work yet to be completed.

“The contracts of Men giving you trouble?” Bilbo asked offhandedly.

Luckily, Fern grasped that he was looking for conversation rather than insulting her skills. She tapped the parchment with the back of her pen. “Did Rowe ever complain about the two old men out by Fiddler's Bend?”

Oh dear Yavanna, it was  _ that  _ contract. Bilbo leaned back from the table and nearly yelped when he realized the damnable parchment was laid out by his hand. “Those two aren't dead yet?” Bilbo squeaked as he inched away from the contract.

“Oh no, they’re dead.” Fern comforted for a moment with a bright smile. “This one is for their heirs. Two boys took over the two estates and have since decided that they don’t like the agreement their fathers had come to, and so they wish to rewrite the whole thing.”

Her hand swept over the table before she jerked her thumb in the direction of the Baggins room permanently rented out in the  _ Prancing Pony. _ “All sixty-two pages of it. And neither wants to be in the same room as the other.”

Bilbo's hand cramped in sympathy. “Can they at least read?” he asked. (He wasn’t asking out of ignorance but outside of the Shire, literacy rates tended to plummet. The Men of Bree were rather inclined to teach their faunts letters and numbers, but Bilbo had audited and edited too many contracts from further afield to naively assume all his clients could look over the written drafts.)

Sixty-two pages was a lot to review when neither of the conflicting parties could read the material.

Fern gave him a long and measured look. “I asked for half upfront payment from each Man and ensured they agreed to a verbal contract to settle this dispute once and for all.”

“But they can't read.” Bilbo drawled, his fingers spasming with the phantom cramps.

“No,” Fern sighed, “no they cannot. This whole project but be done orally. Twice.”

“Give me your completed pages. I'll transcribe it.” Bilbo sighed as he eyed the small stack beside her elbow. He knew her, or rather, he knew Rowe's system. And Rowe only ever put pen to full parchment instead of scroll when he was compiling a final draft.

Fern all but shoved the pile at him with a spare bottle of ink, a pen, and parchment. It was a mark of how overwhelmed she was by the project that Bilbo produced his own ink from his pockets and returned hers without comment. (He pointedly didn’t mention the blush that dusted her cheeks at the blunder.)

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence and Bilbo found his mind wandering as he scratched the contract into Shire paper. This was not his contract and Bilbo trusted Fern (trusted his people) enough to be able to govern themselves and their own positions, Otho’s betrayal notwithstanding. He trusted his people and that was the only reason he allowed his mind to wander as 

No Took had mentioned the twisted paths to him. No one had mentioned anything overly dark or sinister sulking around the boundary. No one had even so much as mumbled rumour or raised concerns at the Council Meetings. Bilbo knew the world was darkening. The Fell Winter in some ways had seemed to be a signal, a call to arms for the darker forces of the world. (And, maybe he was projecting. Maybe he was thinking too much into the gaunt summer that followed that winter, but he didn’t think so.) The Rangers had slid out into the woods and the roads, circling the Shire and even pulling Bounders into their patrols. Bilbo's contracts had become more and more refined in protection.

The world was changing and Bilbo was hesitant to ask why.

A large part of him wanted to be curled up at home in his armchair, surrounded by hearth and comfort. He  _ liked  _ his creature comforts. He enjoyed his tea, bed, gardens, and easy access to food. Part of him screamed at leaving the boundary. (Another part of him salivated at all the  _ contracts  _ he could make.) But the Took blood in his veins had him looking to the East. The Took blood had him cataloging the number of Rangers, storing as much food for his court as possible, and eyeing the early frost with a hatred born from cold nights and too quick deaths.

The paths had twisted and Bilbo would find out why.

(He didn’t have a choice.)

“Master Bilbo, do you mean to tell me that you are traveling with a pack of dwarrow?” Fern deadpanned in such a way that had Bilbo tearing about to check the front door of the  _ Prancing Pony. _

Surely,  _ surely,  _ Yavanna would not be so cruel as to…

There, by the door, were thirteen dwarrow and a wizard. The set up could have been ignored, (maybe) if it weren't for the fact Master Thorin looked ready to strangle one of the faunts and all the dwarrow appeared to have straw, dirt, and other unmentionables in their hair. Well, almost all of the dwarrow. The Ur family snuck into the  _ Prancing Pony  _ without looking any worse for wear.

There was also the fact the three faunts seemed to be arguing back and forth over something and of bleeding bloody  _ course  _ the boys dissolved into a shoving match.

Oh by the fair lady's wrath…!

One of the boy's had slammed into a table, knocking it to the ground.

Bilbo's head thunked down onto the table as he desperately huddled behind the booth backing. Of course, he knew the boys couldn’t actually be physically fighting as much as playing around, or they would have been thrown out the door by the contract.

One glance at the candle in the middle of the table told Bilbo he had worked through the few hours he had gained from taking the paths. Which explained how the dwarrow had appeared now of all times.

“I don’t know them.” Bilbo groaned into the tabletop.

Fern hummed an agreement even as Bilbo felt a hand fall onto his shoulder. “Ah, hello Bilbo!” Toymaker exclaimed as he shoved Bilbo over to take a seat. “I see you made it!”

Bilbo looked over his elbow. “What,” he drawled slowly, “did you get lost?”

Toymaker rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb in the direction of Master Thorin and the other dwarrow. “With Oakenshield? That’s inevitable.”

Bilbo’s head thunked against the table again. Oh joy, this did not bode well for the rest of the journey. Across from him, he could hear Fern’s muffled amusement and he lifted his head enough to glare at her.

“Anyway, my boy, I hate to leave this here simply due to the beautiful craftsmanship, but needs must and all that.” Toymaker said, his words stretching out in the oddest of places. Reaching down to his pack Bilbo had somehow missed in the commotion, Toymaker hauled the box Prim had shoved into his hands all those hours ago and placed it on the table.

Fern’s pen clattered to the table. “Is that a Took box?” she whispered, her eyes going wide. She made an aborted movement towards the box before she clutched her hands back to her chest. “I’ve only ever heard of them.”

Like Fern, Bilbo’s gaze was stuck on the box. He wasn’t overly invested in the generalized vines etched into the sides, instead, he was caught on the belladonna leaves carved into the lid. A Took box, much like a Took Contract, was tailored to the Tooks specifically and guarded jealously. In all his years, he had only ever seen two and both had been by accident. The box was crafted for the Took just before their majority and their close relations were tasked with preparing a kit that would aid the Took on whatever travel they had been contracted to complete.

Bilbo had known his mother had a Took Box, he had just always assumed the Box had been passed onto one of her nieces before she had died. But, that was his mother’s mark and he could see his father’s carved initials on the corner of the Box.

(There was a hand around his throat and Bilbo thought for a moment to turn back to the Shire and march to the Thain. How dare he? How dare the man keep away his inheritance? How dare he?)

He looked up to Fern. The lass looked just as pale as he felt and the relief that flooded his veins when she gave a sharp nod told him that at least Drogo would be given the Box when the boy stopped by to reaffirm the contracts in Bree.

It was surprising how little his hands shook when he undid the latch and lifted the lid.

Bilbo looks at his mother's Took Box and for all that Toymaket and Fern are unashamedly gazing at the contents, he has the wild urge to throw his head back and laugh. This may be his mother's Took Box, it may even have his father's mark, but Yavanna the contents are all his. Inside is a wealth of Shire Paper, bound by hard leather and folded atop a waterproof cloth Bilbo recognized from the Proudfoot stores. There is also a travel pen and inkwell slipped between the sheets and the cloth, and Bilbo can feel his cheeks stretch out in joy. But the real treasure is what is beside the paper.

Conkers.

Bilbo has won every conkers tourney since the year before the Fell Winter. Since he gained the title of champion, he has yet to lose, and every year, he dutifully returns the conkers set to the Thain, confident that the next year the set would finally be passed to a young buck. Only, Bilbo wasn’t going without a fight either.

From the looks of things, Prim had stolen away the set and smuggled it into the box. The whole appearance of the set, jumbled up as it is in the corner of the box, has an air of absurdity to it. Bilbo doesn’t think he's ever actually seen the set outside of the pristine case. Honestly, he can't even say it was stolen. He had won it consistently for almost twenty years. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t prove to any hobbit that the set wasn’t his by right.

Tearing his eyes away from the conkers, Bilbo quickly catalogued the rest of the box. He could see a Silverstreak first aid kit tucked away under a small pouch stamped with the Longbottom Leaf mark, and a small pocket striker alongside matches. The box was far from being full and was no doubt hurriedly shoved together by Prim and his cousins the night before. The fact there was anything at all, let alone the items inside was delightful.

A Took Box.

He had been given a Took Box, and not just any Took Box, his mother's Took Box.

Had he known what Prim had shoved into his hands, Bilbo might not have released her from a rib crushing hug in time to catch up with the dwarrow. Still, he can appreciate the gesture. This is a Took Box, unlike any other Took Box before. This was a Took Box made for a Baggins.

Bilbo gently pulls the items out of the box and squirrels them away into his pockets. He doesn’t need the conkers set, not when he can make one on the road just as easily, but the fact someone had gathered it all up and given it to him speaks volumes. 

Fern wordlessly gathers the box up and places it on the bench beside her. “I suppose well wishes are in order.” She says with a slight grin. “Although, I doubt my word means much.”

Bilbo gently pats at her hand. “Oh Fern,” he sighs, “is that a plea for food?”

From Toymaker's confused look, Bilbo can tell the dwarf has not gleaned the importance of the box or the teasing undertone to Fern's words, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. It’s nice to know he can keep some secrets, even if they are inconsequential ones.

“Food please!” Fern cackles as she twists her hand up to shake Bilbo's. “Let’s grab some food and hopefully avoid the rest of your dwarrow.”

It’s easy to see that Toymaker's grimace mirrored his own. Yavanna knew Bilbo didn’t want to turn around and check what was going on behind him. He couldn’t hear the sounds of a tussle or shouting match, so he figured something must have been figured out. Nevertheless, he shared a long look with Toymaker, before the dwarrow turned and cast a glance into the dining area of the inn. “Well,” he sighed as he shoved himself up to his feet, “I'd better go tell that wizard of yours and Master Thorin that you made it to Bree unharmed and in one piece.”

At that, Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

Toymaker shot him a grin. “Oh, I might have waited until we were nearly at the gates to point out that you had gone wandering several hours before.” He gave a shrug and tapped the side of his nose. “You should have seen that wizard shriek. Wonderful noise that was.”

Fern gave a choked off gasp as she turned and shoved her knuckles into her mouth to stifle what Bilbo guessed was a sudden bout of well earned giggles.

“Its probably for the best that I don’t appear with the group until tomorrow morning then?” Bilbo guessed slowly, a smirk crossing over his face as Toymaker tapped the side of his nose again.

“We leave at dawn.” Toymaker agreed, sounding a bit smug. “But if you want to wait around here a bit and then join back up with us, I’m sure that Master Thorin won't mind too much.”

Fern fell onto the bench with a series of gasping shrieks that her knuckles did little to muffle.

“You and my mother must have gotten on wonderfully.” Bilbo commented with no small amount of awe at the sheer  _ chaos  _ Toymaker was willing to churn up.

Toymaker gave a little finger wave in response before turning away and disappearing into the depths of the dining room. Even though the general hustle and bustle of the inn, Bilbo had no problems hearing Master Thorin growling something low and Gandalf's staff thumping hard against the floor.

Across from Bilbo, Fern rolled her eyes. “I'll just gather this up then and you and I can disappear into the Baggins Rooms out back.” Fern made an almost absent gesture to the door Bilbo knew was just beside the kitchens. “I’ve still got the extra cot made up and since you're here, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to look over some drafts with me?”

In the dining room behind him, something crashed and Bilbo could hear the beginning of raised voices. Not wanting to deal with whoever had managed to get themselves kicked out now, Bilbo simply inclined his head and climbed out of the booth to head towards the door. A quick poke into the kitchen ensured two bowls of stew and a loaf of quick bread would be sent their way.

All in all, it didn’t seem like a bad ending to the beginning of their journey.


	14. And So The Paths Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls out from the abyss*  
> I have managed to find, write, and post the chapter. I'm sorry this one was late but with returning to school, work, and a few other projects and favours that piled up, I'm surprised this was actually done so soon.  
> This chapter, I am proud to say, has some actual plot and answers a few of the questions people have sent in the comments.  
> But anyway, as always, have fun, enjoy, and please don't shoot me.  
> -Lost  
> Edit: For all those who have asked in relation to the previous edit on this chapter. The end of this chapter is a cliff hanger that was meant to be spooky. Apparently I did a terrible job in trying to give everyone something to look forward to. *smiles* Thanks to everyone who asked for clarification and thanks for reading! The next chapter will return to our usual shenanigans.

Bilbo spends his morning taking a seam-ripper to the carefully embroidered X’s on his collar. In all honesty, it is a bit surreal to silently rip out the brands of his family from his shirts. As a faunt, he had fanitzed of leaping past the border, not a stitch in sight. But those dreams had died long ago, (much like his ideas of traveling and slipping out of his homeland without having to worry about curbing his tongue or binding away blood.)

At this hour, the Prancing Pony is silent. Behind him, Fern is barely awake over a cup of tea, her pen already scratching away at the papers. Between her quiet sighs and the echoes of the fraying stitches, Bilbo is almost lulled into a doze.

It is too early for breakfast. The sun has hardly risen past the horizon and Bilbo has already been awake for hours. It was hardly Fern's fault, but Bilbo had sat up with her for much of the night, scowling over the ridiculousness of Men and their absurd contract. And then, in the morning, Fern had woken up with a shout, waking Bilbo is her excitement to dash over to the contract and finally work the correct wording into the stubborn paper.

After that, there had been no reason to go back to bed.

Bilbo tugs at a particularly stubborn stitch in his collar and once again has thought that the marks look like brands. Of course, hobbits would never be so callous as to actually brand anyone, Baggins or not, but the disdain that drills into his back from the gaze of Men, is enough for Bilbo to nurse a small grudge. What was supposed to be a calling card, a way to indicate respect and social status, had been completely skewed in the community of Men. (Taking off the status of his people should not feel like he was slipping the chains of responsibility.)

(Fern is kind enough not to comment on his actions. She was a sweet lass.)

He doesn’t know why he's bothering to take away the stitches. It is not as if he will be recognized outside of Bree, and Fern was right in saying the Baggins name will mean nothing once he leaves the gate. The seam-ripper stills in his hands as he rubs his thumb over the carefully embroidered stitches that still remain. Maybe he's doing it to keep his hands busy, but Bilbo wonders if his nervous movements are because this will be the first time he is unadorned by his family mark or if it is because of the foolishly Tookish plan he had come up with while working beside Fern.

The paths had been twisted and the shadows had lengthened far past what he had last experienced as a faunt. He didn’t think this had to do with the contract in the East, but Bilbo's feet positively itched to walk the paths and hunt down whatever had spooked even the Tooks. (Yavanna help him, he really is his mother’s son, isn’t he?)

Of course, he was not so foolish to know that if he did discover the reason behind the twisted paths, there was not much he could do. Aside from his mother and a few Tooks still abroad with the yearly caravans, this quest was winding up to be the furthest any hobbit had ever ventured outside of the Wandering Years.

He did recognize there wasn’t much he could do if he discovered the reason behind the twisted paths, but as his brain was constantly screeching in astonishment and terror, this was the furthest any Hobbit had traveled aside from his own mother’s adventures. And if the twisted paths reached all the way to the East?

Well, that’s what the wizard was for.

Bilbo could always just shove the old man into the path and let the istari figure out the cause. It seemed like something he would enjoy dragging some other hapless traveler into. Wizards. Honestly. (Yavanna knew, Bilbo would probably be the one dragged into the mess, not that he hadn’t been dragged into it already, but that was neither here nor there.)

The hard footfalls of Men drew Bilbo’s attention and he watched in silent companionship with Fern as the Innkeeper and his wife slowly began to open the Prancing Pony. The man gave Bilbo and Fern a silent nod even as the first few stragglers began to drift down the stairs of the inn, into the dinning area. Merchants and blurry-eyed men that Bilbo would guess had angered the misses of their homes, settled into the benches and the booths of the Pony. Few looked any more awake then a faunt prodded awake after an afternoon nap, and Bilbo hid his grin behind a quick shake of his head and a pointed gulp of his morning cuppa, stolen from Fern’s stash.

(Morning Shire blend, Bilbo hadn’t had a pre bought blend in  _ years.  _ Even the Green Dragon had the pride of homegrown selections, only needing outsourced tea if there happened to be a few more weddings during the spring festivals then previously expected.)

(Bilbo had never been one to pry, but there was the old saying that second faunts took nine months. The first could come at any time.)

The mouth watering scent of eggs and sausages had begun to waft into the dinning room before Bilbo’s sharp ears even picked up the shuffled heavy footfalls of the dwarrow. Honestly, for non-tall-folk, he had expected the dwarrow to be reasonably quiet, but no. It seemed only hobbits were the sensible folk of all of Arda.

Bilbo idly spun the seam-ripper around his fingers as he heard the dwarrow round the corner to the stairs. Much like the morning before, their braids were a mess and their clothes rumpled. The faunts were half thrown over each other and Bilbo was slightly surprised to see that they made it down the stairs without any incidents. Nori, if Bilbo was right (the poor dwarf still had Lobilia’s handprint ghosting across his cheek), cast a hopeful look towards Fern's cuppa but before he could even make a move, Bilbo gave a quick snort.

“I wouldn’t.” he warned absently as he pointed the seam-ripper towards the dwarf. “She was up a good portion of the night reviewing a few different documents. Unless you want to lose a few fingers, I wouldn’t touch the pot.”

It was almost amusing the way the dwarrow turned and gave him a bewildered look. The Urs in particular seemed a bit confused but after a moment of odd silence, Bilbo gave a slow shrug and turned back towards the stubborn stitches. If he wanted to finish his project before they left, he hadn’t much time to waste.

The dwarrow slowly filtered across the room, half collapsing into benches and alcoves. From the smell drifting out of the kitchen, Bilbo was willing to bet food was certainly coming their way in a few minutes. But, before he could begin to dream of fluffy eggs and warm sausage, a soft bump of the bench across from him made Bilbo look up.

Of all the dwarrow who came down, this one had been the only one put together in any semblance of order. His hair was washed through with silver and he had braids coiled into a respectable festival crown around his ears. A small part of Bilbo  _ ached  _ to see a summer eve crown this early into the season, but he forced the thought out of his mind. No dwarrow could know the significance of a summer crown and no dwarrow would do anything that was not loyal to their own culture. Tearing his eyes away from the summer crown, Bilbo forced himself to look at the small handful of glinting metal woven throughout the braids. Flowers and green party would probably have made the whole set up look that much more dashing, but to each their own, Bilbo supposed. Now, if only he could remember this one’s name…

Ki…?

Di?

Lee?

Bilbo yanked the last stitch of the row a bit more harshly than what was sticky necessary. He had been told all of their names yesterday, but by the Lady’s green fields, it seemed that information had gone in one ear and out the other. If his father were here, Bilbo’s ears would be ringing for the rudeness and insult he offered the other half of the contracted.

Oh by the green fields, what was this one's name?

“Dori,” the dwarf suddenly said, his eyes briefly narrowing, “Dori, son of…”

The world held its breath and Bilbo could feel the path forming under his feet even as Fern jumped to attention with a clatter of pens and parchment. His seam-ripper hit the ground with a dull thud and Bilbo ‘s hands were numb. No. Not a name. Not  _ here. _

_ Take the name. _

There was a crooning in his ears and the taste of power on his tongue. All it would take was one little offer, one little nudge. Bilbo licked his lips. The little lass couldn’t stop him even if she tried. Taking this name would be so  _ easy. _

_ Take it. _

**_TaKe ThE nAmE._ **

_ By Contract and Oath... _

“…Ri.” The dwarf finished with a small smile, his eyes crinkling and highlighting crows feet. He was completely unaware of any danger he faced sitting in front of the Shireling.

Bilbo cautiously picked up his seam-ripper as he struggled to keep his breathing steady. There was no surge of power. No savoring of a name. No singing in his blood.

_ Smart dwarf,  _ something dark and twisted in the back of his heart whispered,  _ to hide your name in rock and tongues _ .

Over Dori's shoulder, Fern gives him a look of fear crossed with relief. Bilbo really couldn’t blame her. Fern had always dealt with Men, it was who she felt the most comfortable with. Aside from Drogo and himself, most Baggins found a section of contract they could comfortably and skillfully master, and never left that category. Drogo and Bilbo didn’t have a choice in the matter. They had to master them all. But Fern had never had a contract primarily based in Dwarrow culture and Bilbo had never had a Dwarrow contract officiated outside of Shire land.

His heart was still rabbiting beneath his ribs and Bilbo swore his hands were shaking to every beat. A name. He hadn't had the urge to claim a name in years. He hadn't had the singing in his blood and the laughter in his ears demanding to reach out and claim a name.

He hadn’t had the claws of his instincts sink into his throat since he had been a faunt at his father’s knee, not yet able to read the contracts he edited.

Bilbo only had two names in his heart aside from his own. Two names etched into his bones and stamped across his heart. His mother and his father, both gifted to him during the Fell Winter. He had never twisted the names, never reached his hand in like any Baggins could, and speak oaths and promises. Bilbo had taken his parents names without the accompanying tokens and stared into the embers in the hearth.

If someone had asked him an hour ago, he would have said he had four. His parents and the Ur family. (Bifur didn’t count, he may have given the faith of his name but he had never outright said it. Bofur giving his uncle's name did not carry the same weight.) But now, without the Shire to stop him from twisting the names, Bilbo cast an eye inwards.

Names had power.

The names given to him. The names of the Urs…

Their names were surrounded by rock and stone. He could say their names but it was not the true name. It was a label, not the essence. (He had always thought it was only hobbits who had the ability to hide away names.)

Closing his eyes for a quick moment, Bilbo cast a short prayer to the Lady and her honoured Husband for their forethought and protection given to their children. Maybe, just maybe, this trip would remain safe for all those involved. (He could live in perpetual hope.)

“Are you alright, Baggins?” Dori asked, his head tilted slightly in what appeared to be concern. 

Bilbo gave him a small sort of smile. “Perfectly!”

The look Dori gave him in response was of a dwarf not entirely convinced, but Bilbo would take what he could get. Thankfully, during his panic, it seemed the innkeeper and his wife had begun to hand out plates of food to the awaiting morning crowd. 

Fern, the sweet thing she was, gently placed a toddy and a plate heaping with enough eggs, sausage, and scones, to last him until elevenses. Her ink stained fingers slipped over his wrist for a split second before she was sliding onto the bench beside him and gently tugging the shirt out of his hands. “I'll take that, Master Baggins. You eat.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but give the lass a grateful look before he turned to dig into the plate. After that whole situation, he needed as much energy as he could cram into his rolling stomach.

Dori gave him a long look but nodded to the young girl that flitted out of the kitchen and deposited a plate before him. For a moment or two, the only sound between them was the slow scrape of silverware on the plates, and the accompanying clink of cups on the tables. Considering the boisterous energy of the dwarrow the night before, Bilbo was surprised to see the quiet morning was not a one off event.

“Might I ask,” Dori began when Bilbo finally pushed his plate off to the side and dragged his cuppa into his hands, “what alterations are you doing?” he nodded towards the small pile of shirts Fern had begun to dig through.

Surprised, Bilbo could only sputter, forcing him to reach for a handkerchief and dab at his mouth. “By the Lady, why?” Surely the dwarf had more important matters to attend to besides a hobbit’s style of dress.

Dori nodded towards the shirts. “I am a tailor and weaver by trade, seeing my craft done in the open has made me curious.”

When put like that, Bilbo couldn’t really argue, now could he? If someone had been creating a contract in the middle of the room and not by the rules of the Baggins, Bilbo would have gravitated over without a thought. At least Dori had had the kindness to wait until Bilbo had finished his breakfast.

Staring down into his cuppa, Bilbo chewed on his cheek as he tried to figure out how to explain exactly what Fern was doing for him. Bilbo was not as up to date in dwarrow culture as he probably should have been but he knew enough that if he worded this incorrectly, the poor dwarf would either end up royally confused or indignant on his behalf.

“I suppose you could compare your beads to my embroidery.” Bilbo began, slowly flicking his fingers towards the dwarrow’s braids. “Outside of the Shire, my family patterns will not be recognizable to anyone, so they can stay. But the marks Fern has graciously offered to remove,” here, Bilbo gave the lass a soft smile and a quick pat on the wrist, “indicate that I am part of a rather large and complex clan with a very specific skill set. Since none of my, I believe you would call them a guild? Have been to the East, it is simply easier to remove any identifiers should this quest not go according to plan. It would be better if dear Droggo did not have to deal with that political fall out this early into his Mastery.”

There was a glint in Dori’s eyes that Bilbo was wary to name, but either way the dwarf gave a sharp nod to indicate he understood as he draped his hands around his own cup. “It always comes back to family, doesn’t it?” Dori murmured, his eyes hooded as he glazed quickly to his two brothers practically inhaling their food a booth over.

Cautiously, Bilbo gave his own nod. “Typically, that’s how these things start.” He agreed, more for the lack of anything else to say.

Dori hummed and he brought the cuppa a bit closer. At the sight, Bilbo fought the urge to give into rather hysterical laughter. The whole scene was absurd. The dwarf had hands calloused and gnarled from years of fine work and rough handcrafts, but the rather delicate tea cup was held between large fingers as if it were the finest crockery in the world.

The dwarf followed his gaze with a bemused look. “Considering the dwarrow enthusiasm for ale, I agree, this must seem like a rather odd sight.” The amusement was thick in the dwarrow’s voice and Bilbo’s cheeks flushed with heat.

“I mean no offence,” Bilbo sputtered, half wildly wondering where his manners had scampered to this morning, “it is just, I do not think the Pony has ever had anyone handle their wares that kindly. Even Fern brought her own Shire set.” He gestured to the lily-painted set that had originally belonged to a mutual third cousin, that Fern had inherited a few years back. Their mutual cousin had apparently thought it tacky that Fern had used a set decorated with ferns, so the set had been sent along the moment the poor woman had been cast back into the earth.

(Bilbo only remembered the circumstances because the scandal over the inheritance had made waves across the Shire considering most of the cousins had assumed that the lily set would go to the woman’s daughter, Lily.)

Dori blinked at him for a moment, his tight smile loosening into something softer as he looked down at the cup Bilbo had pushed forward for him to inspect. “All crafts are to be respected,” he said, a pained glint flashing his eyes before he could hide it, “even those with less  _ savoury  _ ones.”

Well, there wasn’t much Bilbo could say to that, now was there? Instead, he gave his breakfast companion a short nod and poured himself another cuppa.

“You are alright, I think.” Dori said as the serving girl came around to gather up their plates.

Startled out of his thoughts, Bilbo had to wonder how long the two of them had sat in silence. “Thank you?” Bilbo eventually managed to sputter. “You are alright, as well?”

Dori gave him a stern nod before gesturing towards his brothers. “That is Ori and Nori, sons of Ri.”

“Alright.” The word was dragged out slowly as Bilbo took a quick glance over towards the two dwarrow Dori had gestured towards. In all honesty, Bilbo had no idea what Dori was getting at. Bilbo could proudly admit he remembered Ori, what with the hours of negotiation they had suffered through two nights before, and Nori was rather easy to remember. The bruise and the hairstyle made him stick out like a sore thumb.

“The scribe and the…” Bilbo paused, the word thief hanging heavy on his tongue. Bilbo wasn’t one to judge. He had been known to leave silver unattended if poor Men and Dwarrow came through, if only to ensure enough coin would find it’s way into the pockets of those with hungry faunts and desperate mothers. Bilbo sucked in a breath and shook away dark thoughts. “...the locksmith.”

(Saying thief out loud, in a city of Men with what looked to be a possible gate guard rotation coming in through the door, was probably not the wisest decision to make.)

Dori's hand slipped on his cuppa and the sharp clink of crockery knocking onto the table drew Bilbo's attention back to the dwarf. “Are you alright, Master Dori?” Bilbo asked as he handed over a handkerchief for the spilled tea.

“Yes, yes.” Dori hurried to assure, his hands oddly flinching across the table, moving the tea about rather than mopping it up. “If you excuse me.”

Bilbo hardly had time to nod before the dwarf was scurrying away, his hands held firmly together as he nearly dashed up the stairs towards the rooms the dwarrow had occupied the night before. A few moments later, Ori and Nori scampered after their brother.

“Odd.” Bilbo commented lightly, nudging the cloth over the last few droplets of tea. “But at least it seems Gandalf has yet to grace us with his presence.”

Fern simply hummed in agreement.

It was the thought of the wizard that had Bilbo pulling up short. Bilbo had roomed in the Baggins’ rooms the previous night but if Toymaker’s comments about the general state of the Blue Mountains had been any indication, Bilbo was suddenly concerned about  _ how  _ the dwarrow were going to pay for the room and board. That wasn’t to even mention if Gandalf had any coin on him, the wanderer had been known to be rather penniless and tricky in the past.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Bilbo closed his eyes, already cursing the long night he had had. He was going to blame his frazzled nerves and odd manners on the twisted paths and the excitement of being dragged out of the Shire by the Disturber of the Peace. “Any damages and the general costs the dwarrow cannot cover, can you ensure are billed to my account?” Bilbo groaned into his hand, not needing to look over to see Fern snickering softly into the seams. “Gandalf can be covered by the Thrain. If Grandfather insists the Man be allowed in the Shire and the surrounding lands without consequence, then he can pay for the old man’s way.”

“Of course,” Fern murmured sweetly, her tone a touch coy for Bilbo’s fraying patience, “I’ll draft up a letter for Drogo and the Thrain, and O’le Tegan knows we’re good for money.”

Still, the lass gathered up his shirts with a short smile and he watched as she trailed over to the kitchen and the door leading to the Baggins’ room. (She was such a sweet lass, willing to do whatever was necessary for both family and contract.)

Well, at least that was one thing dealt with, Bilbo thought. Lifting up his cup, he took a quick sip, barely resisting the urge to spit the tea back out onto the table. Cold. Stone cold. He stared down at the cup. How long had he sat at the table in silent thought?

Maybe it was because Bilbo kept turning the conversation over in his head, but it seemed the dwarrow went from being molasses creatures given life to quick bunnies, rabbiting around the room. Blinking away his surprise, Bilbo watched as the dwarrow shuffled down the stairs back into the dining room of the inn in bemusement. He hadn't even seen them leave the room.

(Huh, maybe dwarrow could be sneaky when they chose to be.)

“Master Baggins!”

Bilbo snapped to attention, grabbing the bag Fern shoved into his hands as she scampered by. (How she had managed to grab his things that quickly was anyone's guess.)

“Master Thorin.” He returned with a quick nod, stomach knotting unpleasantly as the dwarf gave him one long, unimpressed glare. (The twins behind him, crossing their eyes and scrunching their noses in a fair approximation of their Uncle's squint, did not help Bilbo to look the taller being in the eye.)

“Are you ready?” Thorin near barked, turning away and barking orders at Master Dwalin before Bilbo could do more than heft his bag onto his shoulders.

Stung, Bilbo shrank back. The nerve of the dwarf! Bilbo had been ready for hours before the lanky dwarf had even bothered to haul himself out of bed. And to think Bilbo was willing to give up second breakfast and elevenses for him!

Blessedly Toymaker appeared at Bilbo's elbow before he could work himself up into an indigent rant or perhaps even forgo the pleasantries and kick the lordly king in the shin. He promptly ignored the fact that with the thick boots in place, Bilbo was more likely to injure himself before even denting the infuriating dwarf. He also ignored the way Fern pointedly looked towards the framed contract on the walls of the Prancing Pony. (It would not do for a Master Baggins to be kicked out by the word of his own blood and people. Bilbo would just have to wait until they were outside to lose his temper.)

“Let's get you to the pony, shall we?” Bofur sang gleefully.

Oh by the Lady's sagging tits, Bilbo had forgotten about the slobbering beast made of teeth and fur. Frozen, he completely missed when Bofur flipped a quick gesture to his brother, only coming back to reality when Bombur literally scooped him up off the ground.

“Put me down this instant!” Bilbo shrieked. Lady's fields and Mahal's hammer, Bilbo had never been so humiliated in his life! Picked up like a spoiled faunt throwing a tantrum and dragged out of the Pony like a delinquent.

The scene was further compounded by the fact the moment Bombur exited the Pony, Gandalf swooped in with thunder in his face and anger on his brow. “Bilbo Baggins!” the wizard shouted, his staff tapping the ground with a punctuating thump. “Where did you disappear yesterday evening?”

Behind Gandalf, Toymaker smirked as he mounted the pony. Pinned under the thunderous gaze of the wizard, Bilbo was barely able to note that the dwarrow had streamed out of the door and had readied the ponies for the next stage of their journey.

“I had gone for a walk.” Bilbo sputtered as Bombur put him down and scampered to hide behind his brother. Not that it had done him much good considering the wizard had thwacked the dwarf in the back of the knees as he dodged by. “It wasn’t as if you had noticed.”

The moment the words had left his mouth, Bilbo knew he had made a mistake. The istari loomed over him and half buried memories of Belladonna threatening to sic an angered Gandalf on his trail should Bilbo even step one foot of line, flew across his mind. Swallowing, Bilbo managed to give Gandalf a sickly sort of smile. “You know us hobbits.” Bilbo hissed out in a mix of fear and anxiety. It was never a good thing to have a being who could manipulate the world with a few words and pointed looks, annoyed with him. “Light on our feet and near impossible to catch.”

Then Bilbo did the stupidest thing he had done in years.

Turning, the hobbit shrugged off his pack and tossed it towards Toymaker. His conkers and knife were already stashed deep in his pockets and there was an itch crawling across his shoulder blades. He would be able to find Toymaker easily, the dwarf held not only Bilbo’s things but he also offered familial bonds. Bilbo, like any hobbit, would be able to find his way towards that combination deaf, blind, and near death. 

Toymaker must have seen something on his face, because the dwarf threw his head back and burst into laughter. Gandalf, sadly, was too caught up in his own anger to recognize the spite and mischievousness of a Took.

Bilbo gave the man a short wave and bolted into the morning crowds of Bree. There was very little he would not do to stay off the back of the devilish creature Toymaker seemed ever so fond of, and it was safer (probably) to investigate the twisted paths closer to the Shire, then it was to wander in the East.

The dirt under Bilbo’s feet shifted and he heard the bellow of the wizard echo behind him. In his chest, his lungs seemed to expand and the weight rolled off his shoulders. He hardly noticed when he had left the gates of Bree behind, his feet rolled over worn paths and slipped over the overgrown grasses and mosses. Somewhere to the north, Bilbo could hear the laughter of a Took spiraling across the winds and curling through the trees. To the west, he could hear the steady heartbeat of the Shire and the promise of safety and  _ home _ . 

Oh, if he could simply  _ dance.  _ If he could put his feet to the paths and run until the horizon disappeared under his feet and the world grew to no longer need the oaths and contracts of blood. Oh, what he would give to simply slip out from under this mantle.

(He could never leave Drogo.)

Bilbo didn’t know where he was running. He hadn’t paid enough attention to the paths under his feet. His gait ate up the ground and he heard yet another Took howl down the paths.

(What was he doing?)

His collar was free from the brands of his people and his mantle was curled up in his pocket. Bilbo had finally managed to leave the border of the Shire and he was free. He was free. He was…

(What was that noise?)

Bilbo slowed his steps, his feet faltering to a slow stop.

The Shire still paid tithes and dues to the old kingdom, as was their contract. The hobbits maintained the old roads and patrolled the borders as if the east and south lands were still leased from the ghosts of the Men long laid to rest. They still supported and encouraged the Rangers, even if the king was long gone.

The hobbits did not go into the old wood.

The hobbits did not go and bother the graves of the Men and the traitors burned and buried beneath stone.

Bilbo’s hand rested on the top of crumbling stone and his feet found purchase on moss covered stone pillars laid across the ground as if faunts had carelessly dropped their toys to wander off for lunch. Bilbo was not on Shire land. He could not feel the hum of hearth and safety beneath his feet.

Overhead, the trees loomed menacingly and a soft breeze jostled the branches. The sunlight peeking through the canopy was cold. The warmth of the scene, the brightness that should have come with overturned soil and crumbling ruins housing new life from Yavanna’s garden, was absent.

Bilbo took a step back.

His breath twisted in front of his face as a pale cloud.

Bilbo looked down to where his hand rested.

_ One….lit _ **_tle_ ** _ ….n _ **_am_ ** _ e…… _

Bilbo snatched his hand away, clutching the limb to his chest as if he had been burned.

_ On _ **_e_ ** _ …. _ **_lit_ ** _ tle….d _ **_ro_ ** _ p… of…. _

No. No. There was something wrong. There was something wrong. Where was Toymaker? Where was the warmth of family and hearth? Where was the beckoning of responsibility and contract?

Where was…

The winds shrieked through the ruins, leaves twisting out and skittering across the ground like the dry chuckles of a dead man. Long cold fingers of bone and rot curled into Bilbo’s ribs.

**_BLOOD._ **

Bilbo turned on his heel and slammed his feet back onto the paths. From his lungs was torn a scream of terror and warning, the rot and carnage of ghosts long past slipping into his voiceless horror. The scream echoed in his ears and the paths fell silent. The laughter of the Tooks shuddered to a halt, the rot of terror slitting the throat of their happiness. The glow of the Shire reared up and the  _ thing  _ haunting Bilbo’s steps crumbled to dust.

Bilbo threw himself off the path at the first sight of pipeweed and Sackville cloth. He should have stayed off the paths. He should have stayed off the paths. He should have stayed off the paths.

Bilbo crashed onto the ground. Both his hands skidded off cold dirt and errant stones, and Bilbo found himself rolling across grass. The screams of the paths crooned in his ears and sang in his blood and Bilbo was going to be sick. He was going to be sick.

His hands hurt. He didn’t know where he was. He hardly had anything on him but a feeble set of conkers and a paring knife. What was he doing this far from home?

What was he doing outside of the Shire at all?

(Maybe his Grandfather had been right…)

“E’llo Bilbo!” Toymaker shouted with a quick wave from where he was sitting by the fire, a block of wood held loosely in his hand. “Just in time for supper you are. I rather thought you might stay on the paths all day. If you want some stew, you’re gonna have to wait a bit. Bombur just began to throw things in the pot.”

Sure enough, Bombur stood by a cook pot. The other dwarrow wandered around the makeshift camp. The twins were fighting over something, Ori was hunched over a book with his master looking over his shoulder. Thorin and Dwalin appeared to be conversing in low tones on the other side of the fire and it seemed Nori, Gloin and Oin had found themselves roped into a conversation by Gandalf. Bilbo took in the scene with wide eyes and it was with a galloping heartbeat that he turned to look over his shoulder.

Empty fields and sparse forest dotted the landscape and he could barely make out what looked to be a merchant’s trail cutting through the grass a far bit into the distance. As he climbed up to his feet, Bilbo’s hands fluttered up to cover his heart and he glanced up to the sky. (Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe it had been a…) Overhead, the sky was just beginning to reveal a blanket of stars.

(How far had he run?)

Toymaker stood up and began to casually stroll towards him. “Did you have a good day? Gandalf was nearly apocalyptic with rage when you scampered off, but I told him you were a fully grown hobbit and knew better then to stick your nose where it didn’t belong.”

Toymaker patted him gently on the shoulder and shook his head as he began to steer Bilbo towards the fire. “By the forges, you look peakish! I thought you hobbits had to eat!”

Bilbo did not fight the dwarf when Toymaker pushed him down beside Bifur. His hands shook and his lungs seemed shriveled up under his ribs. (How far had he run? How far had he run? How far had he…)

“Tomorrow, you’re going to stay with the company. Your mother would skin me if I didn’t force you to interact with the others.”

…***...

Leagues away, a figure in the dark reached up and slowly began to paw at the stone laying over his resting place. The little sacrifice had been so close. So close. He had tasted the blood of many sacrifices, had savoured the taste of thick lifeblood and delighted in the screams of the innocent. But this one…

This one had smelt  _ exquisite. _

This had smelt nothing like those foolish little halflings who wandered into his territory once the sun sank below the ground.

No, this one smelled like something  _ other. _

In the grave, the figure began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain the whole names thing, just in case I royally screwed up the explanation in the chpt.  
> Men:  
> True Name: John Timothy Smith  
> Common Name: John Smith  
> Hobbit/Dwarrow/Elf  
> True Name/ Hidden Name: (this is given by mother's upon the child’s birth and is gifted to the child for their own safekeeping when they are of age. Only the mother is aware of the name.)  
> Common Name: Bilbo Baggins  
> Wizards:  
> Look, they’ve got enough names on their own that if they get stuck in a contract I’d be shocked

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think in the comments below!


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